


The Soldier and the Boy King

by frumious_bandersnatch



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alastair should run a cooking show, Blood, Boyking!Sam Winchester, Burning, Cannibalism, Canon Divergent AU, Castration, Dean in Hell, Death (Supernatural) is Death (Discworld), Espionage, Gore, Hellhounds, Incest, King of Hell!Lucifer, M/M, Major character death - Freeform, Multi, Rape, Sad, Sam has a drinking problem, The Rack, Torture, alligator shears, autocannibalism, beastiality, bottom!Dean, breath play, but you know, for blood, gridiron torture, lead sprinkler, orgasm restriction/denial, stockholm's syndrome, this turned into a sad story that’s what it did
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-19
Updated: 2020-07-29
Packaged: 2021-03-04 21:42:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 27
Words: 41,778
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25373341
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/frumious_bandersnatch/pseuds/frumious_bandersnatch
Summary: Dean never left Hell. It came to a testy understanding with heaven leading to both of the vessels being stuck in the fiery pit. That, though, is the least of our problems.Lucifer’s ineffectual and tyrannical rule sparks dissent leading to secrecy and meetings in the dark. The knowledge of them balances on the razor’s edge of discovery followed by death. But in times like these, times that Lucifer caused, those who are a part of the cause would rather face torture and death than see their work go to waste.From exploring relationships glossed over in the canon to inventing new backstories, this work strays very far from the source material so be warned.
Relationships: Alastair/Lucifer, Crowley/Sam Winchester, Dean Winchester/Alastair, Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester, Lucifer/Dean Winchester, Lucifer/Sam Winchester, Lucifer/Sam Winchester/Dean Winchester
Comments: 151
Kudos: 43





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you guys like it! It’s been fun to write so far, and any and all feedback is appreciated. :)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter specific warnings: implied cannibalism

Dean had never been much of a neat freak. But being clean was a luxury few could afford in Hell, and he took full advantage of it. Being able to shower, water hot and steaming and pounding on his back, on scars old and new, on raised welts and scratches. 

He braced himself against the wall, letting out a tired sigh and allowing himself stay like that for a little while, water stained red running off his body onto the tile floor. He turned and scrubbed at his arms, at the blood and flecks of meat stuck there until he could finally see his own skin again. 

When he finally stepped out of the shower everything was soft, and he smelled like tea tree and eucalyptus. 

One never really thought of Hell having residential areas. It was supposed to be all fire and brimstone, endless torment until the end of time. But tormentors needed a place to rest their feet, once and a while.

But it was still Hell. In most flats, or houses, or whatever wayward souls chose to see it as- because Hell was most definitely subjective. You either saw what you wanted to, or what was shown to you. For Dean it was a city, crowded apartments and shitty roads and questionable markets. 

But he didn’t have the usual fare of dripping ceilings and questionable black mold and mushrooms fighting their way out from between bathroom tiles.

No, Dean got the penthouse suite. Perks of being Alastair’s favorite student/employee/fuckbuddy/whatever the hell he was.

He toweled off and stared at himself in the mirror green eyes staring right back at him. Not black yet. There were small mercies.

He stepped out of the bathroom, naked as the day he was born, and strode out through the living room to the everpresent sound of some big band swing from the ancient gramophone stood in the corner of the room. 

He absently hummed along to a few bars of ‘Minnie the Moocher’ as he strode into the bedroom, carpet soft against aching feet as he bent down to open a mahogany dresser drawer.

He ended up in a pair of silk boxers and a faded Metallica tee. He looked at himself again in the mirror and ran a hand through his hair. He smiled at himself, before his shoulders slumped. He hated being alone in the house.

Soft red light filtered through the windows, never betraying the time. There wasn’t one, anyways. It was always Too Late.

He spent his night cooking some of the meat that was in the fridge. He staunchly refused to believe it was anything other than pork, but part of him knew full well there weren’t any pigs in hell and they didn’t import from topside.

Dean ate his sirloin in relative silence, listening to the music from the gramophone. Funny thing about it was that you never had to change the record if you wanted to listen to something new, it just played from the immense catalogue of Songs Alastair Liked. The demon had seen one once and conjured up what he thought it should be like. Slowly, Dean had managed to integrate some of his favorites in as well. A small smile teased its way across his lips when ‘White Room’ by Cream faded in.

He stood and shuffled into the kitchen, cleaning up his mess. Before he would have left it, but that felt like so many lifetimes ago. He jerked reflexively when the front door slammed open. Alastair was in a mood.

The older demon grumbled to himself in infernal. That always meant it was bad. He regained his composure quickly, though, always a master of his emotions. He took off his suit jacket and let out a heavy sigh. “Mm, Dean.” He greeted. “Get dressed, now. You have an audience. With the king.”

Dean paused at that. Alastair was only tangentially involved in Hell’s politics because of his seniority and high position, and Dean was practically sheltered from it. “And, uh...that would be?” 

Alastair sighed heavily. “Lucifer. You should know this.”

“Well I would if you actually _told_ me things about Hell. I barely know how anything outside how torture works, and-“ Dean didn’t realize he’d been slapped until he was on the floor, clutching at his cheek.

“Watch your tone.” Alastair hissed, crouching down over Dean and gripping at his chin, wrenching his head up so green eyes could meet white.

“You don’t know because you don’t need to. You know what I elect to tell you because you are mine.”

Dean swallowed thickly, still and pliant in Alastair’s hold. “Yes sir.”

“Alastair, please.” The demon released him and stood, brushing himself off. He fixed the collar of his Oxford shirt and flexed blood coated fingers. “The suit. Get dressed.” He reminded.

Dean pushed himself to his feet with a grunt, shambling back to the room to get dressed. Off came the t-shirt, on went a white wife beater and a wingtip collar dress shirt. Sleeve garters and a dark brown, almost black vest. Slacks the same color of his vest pulled up over his thighs, cinched with a faded leather belt. He looked at himself in the mirror and he didn’t recognize who he saw.

He watched as Alastair walked up behind him, now cleaned hands gripping possessively at his sides. “Beautiful.” Slender fingers tied a deep red tie around his neck, tightening it like a noose. “Mm, you really should do your work in this more often. Flannel and jeans do not an intimidating demon make.”

“I’m not a demon.” Dean reminded.

“Not yet.” Alastair helped Dean into a double breasted suit jacket. “You will address him as ‘my king’ or ‘my lord’. You will not balk. You will keep your eyes averted.”

Dean nodded silently, eyes slipping shut as he felt Alastair kiss at his neck.

“Good boy. Mm, follow me.” Alastair grinned, brows raised as he checked himself in the mirror before leading his pupil out.

Dean walked proudly through Hell. It was one of the luxuries he was afforded, knowing that the rabble couldn’t do shit to him when he was with Alastair. That they could talk all they wanted but at the end of the day? He was the boss.

As they walked up the grand hall to the throne room, though, he heeded Alastair’s warnings. He kept his head bowed, hands clasped behind his back as the door swung open in front of him.

The first thing he noticed was the smell of blood. Thick and cloying and all encompassing. The second thing was the light. On the throne sat a man in a white suit, and above his back arched pearlescent, white-pink wings that bled to red at the tips. Tears beaded in Dean’s eyes. They were beautiful. The purest thing he’d seen down here in so long.

The suit didn’t quite fit Lucifer. It washed his skin out, but he rather liked the vessel he wore. Blonde, blue eyes, conventionally attractive… If Sam was his prom dress, this was his Friday evening casual. He watched as Dean kneeled on the stone floor and nodded his approval.

“My king.” Dean bit out after a second, remembering what he’d been told. “You...summoned me?” He didn’t know how to act and it showed.

Lucifer chuckled. “That I did. Dean Winchester...you’ve made quite a name for yourself down here.”

“Thank you, sir.” Dean bowed his head further, eyes tracing along the cracks in the stone floor.

“No need. It’s the truth.” Lucifer stood, wings still spread out behind them before they gave a flap and folded elegantly behind his back. His eyes flashed red and he looked, _really_ looked at the Michael sword. Soul blackened and tarnished, body scarred. But he still shone so brightly. It was impressive. It took a lot of negotiating, meetings, to get things to turn out like this. To keep the Winchester down here, to stop the garrison of misfits from coming and fetching him, to get out of the cage early.

Now heaven and hell were in a relative, testy alliance, trying out the idea of free will for once now that it was made clear daddy was long gone.

Dean said nothing, still staying in his perfectly held position.

“Do you miss him?” Lucifer asked lightly, voice softening.

“I’m sorry?” Dean frowned, brow creasing. “Who?”

“Your brother, Dean. Do you miss Sam?”

Dean froze, throat bobbing. He didn’t move, his eyes didn’t flicker away from their decided spot, but he tensed obviously.

“Alastair will not punish you for your answer. Nor will I. Just answer truthfully.”

“...Sometimes. Yeah. Yeah, I do. Don’t think about it much, though.” Dean mumbled, eyes suddenly growing wet.

“That’s alright.” There was a calming hand on Dean’s shoulder and the man _sobbed_ , struggling to choke it back and keep his emotions under wraps but it was too late.

“You’re alright, Dean. Breathe. That’s it. I have something to show you.”

Dean’s arms jerked out to clutch at Lucifer’s back as he latched on to the first form of comfort he’d had in a long while. If he wasn’t so worked up he’d probably chuckle that he was going to the devil himself for relief.

Lucifer gasped softly, caught by surprise. He crouched there for a while, stunned into silence before his wings drifted down to rest over Dean. Holding him, protecting him. They were like that for a few minutes before Dean pulled back, eyes red rimmed and puffy as he started to murmur his apologies.

“No need.” Lucifer said again. “It’s alright. I have something to show you. Can we get up?” This human, this soul, so vulnerable, reminded him of himself a long time ago. It almost hurt to see him like this.

Dean nodded, clearing his throat and silencing his sobs as he regained a steely faced composure and stood, eyes still averted.

Lucifer rolled his wings against his back and stood aside, gently taking Dean’s chin and tilting his head up.

First he was met with the source of the blood smell. A demon, strung up by his hands and hanging from the ceiling with a gash through his neck and a bucket underneath to catch the drippings.

And then...Sam. Stood beside the throne, dressed similarly to Lucifer save for the suit jacket, with a soft leather collar around his neck. Black eyes, not brown, met Dean’s green ones, but he didn’t care. “Sammy?”

“Dean.” His brother greeted cordially, hands still clashed behind his back.

In stark contrast, Dean rushed over and pulled him into a tight hug. “God, I’ve missed you.” He murmured.

Sam, just as Lucifer had been, was caught by surprise, but reacted quicker. He wrapped his arms around his brother in turn. “I missed you too.” He murmured, rubbing Dean’s back. “It’s been a while.”

On the other side of the room, Lucifer and Alastair spoke quietly.

“Are you sure this is the best course of action, my lord? He’s so close, just on the edge, his soul-“

“And do you want him anchored here, or not?” Lucifer hummed. “I need my boyking happy. You need Dean happy. They can have eachother once in a while. I know you’re...possessive, but I also know you know how to respect authority, don’t you Al?”

“...Yes, Lucifer.”

“Very good. Let them have their ten minutes, then take Dean back. I bet you he turns faster after this.”

“We shall see.” Alastair decided, nodding.


	2. Chapter Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam is tempered in fire.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Holy crap this fic is taking over. I’m more inspired than I have been in forever! This was a little hard to write, and I hope I did the subject justice. Once again, please leave any and all feedback in a comment, it is much appreciated!
> 
> Chapter specific warnings: excessive gore, isolation, dubious consent

Sam still begged. He still pleaded, he still screamed until his throat was raw and bloody. Lucifer hadn’t yet carved that out of him.

Lucifer was different than Alastair. He didn’t make art, when he tortured. He proved a point, he put forth theories, he carved poems and song and knowledge into flesh.

Sam wailed, tense beyond belief, muscles and bones creaking under the strain.

“Shh, that’s it. Let me make you better. Very good.” Lucifer murmured, arms slick with blood up to the elbows already as he rooted around inside his boy king, playing with his innards and his blackened soul all at once. “You know why I do this, don’t you?”

“Hhhhe- mmm- Luc’fer please-“ Sam choked out, kicking weakly as tears streamed down his face.

“I’ll let you talk later, then.” Lucifer decided, twisting his arm and wringing a violent, ear splitting shriek from his vessel. It was music to his ears. “I do this to help you. Because you’re weak, Sam. You’re human still, even with those pretty black peepers of yours.

“I don’t mean to make you emotionless, or thoughtless. Nothing good ever comes of mindless obedience, I can learn from my father’s mistake.” And there was an air of bitterness to Lucifer’s tone then. 

“I mean to make you strong. Chugging down demon blood won’t do that for you. It helps, but...it doesn’t have the kick I need.”

Lucifer tore his hand away and gently caressed Sam’s cheek, touch soft and loverly as if he hadn’t just been tearing into his very essence.

“You have to be tested.” He placed a searing cold kiss to Sam’s lips and the hunter turned demon screamed into his mouth. Lucifer tasted blood and bile on his tongue and moaned before he pulled back. “Tempered in fire. I need to make my claim all over your soul until you’re not just Sam anymore, you’re mine. First and foremost.”

“‘M- I th’ght-“

“Thought we were done?” Lucifer pouted. “Oh, Sam. Sam, Sam, Sam, we can't be done. Do you want to know why?”

Sam nodded desperately, trying to see through the pain of being rearranged from the inside out, of seeing blazing grace that burned him to the core, of razor sharp feathers scouring his back.

“ _Because you still missed Dean_.”

“Bu’-“

“But he missed you? That’s not the problem. You can’t blame your brother for something he has no control of yet. _I_ am your everything. You belong to _me_. He’s a soldier. A grunt. You’re a king. You’re my prince.” Lucifer crooned. “Do you know what I’d do if I saw Michael face-to-face, after so many years apart?”

Sam shook his head this time, and let out a choked yell as Lucifer’s hand hot through his back and gripped his heart and _squeezed_. 

“I’d rip his back-stabbing heart out of his body.” Lucifer twisted and yanked the offending organ out and Sam slumped against him, blood burbling up through his throat. The archangel let him fall to the floor, limp and barely moving.

“I’d shatter his spine.” Lucifer stomped down on Sam’s back and blood spattered onto his white patent leather shoe and his white slacks.

Sam wailed and clawed at the floor, eyes rolling back in his head.

“I’d throw him in a deep, dark hole and tell him it was his fault because he wasn’t good enough, because he was never good enough.” And then a hand was wrapping around Sam’s throat and he was being dragged out of the throneroom, down the hall. He was being thrown into a room and when the door closed, it was pitch black. He heard Lucifer’s voice from the other side of the door and threw himself at it, letting out a cry of anguish just from the simple action. “Dn’t leave me ‘lone, please, please- Lucifer!”

There was no reply.

He hallucinated. He went through withdrawal. His stomach caved in from hunger and he clawed at himself, ripping away chunks of flesh as the voice inside his head told him he didn’t even deserve that, that this was his just punishment, that this was his tempering and he would come out stronger. It told him that for ten years. Until he was bones and skin and dust.

The thing about time in Hell was that it could be altered. Stronger demons used this to their advantage in torture, making thousands of years of isolation pass in the blink of an eye.

Lucifer used it for situations like this. Just a day, for him, at least, after leaving Sam, he walked down the hall and stood in front of the door. He raised a hand to the wrought iron handle, before he paused. He didn’t feel guilty. He rarely did. He did feel...something though. Just couldn’t put a pin in it.

He pulled the door open and Sam’s barely there body fell forward from where it had been slumped against it.

A cloying, rasping sigh fell from his lips and Lucifer stooped down, wrapping his arms around Sam’s body, restoring it ever so slowly. This was how they operated. Hurt and comfort, Sam’s growing reliance on his king. Lucifer knew exactly what he was doing.

Sam gasped for air after a few seconds, gripping at Lucifer’s back and digging his fingers into the feathers of his wings.

He wept, burying his face in Lucifer’s chest as everything stopped. The pain, the hunger, the longing. All wiped away. “I’m sorry.” He breathed, shaking.

“I know. It’s okay.” Lucifer soothed, lifting Sam to his feet. “Let’s get you cleaned up and dressed, hm? Let me take care of you.”

Sam nodded wordlessly, closing his eyes and letting himself be carried.

In a stupor, he felt himself lowered into a warm bath. He felt cold fingers rubbing circles into his shoulder blades, soothing residual aches and pains. Loving over every inch of him. Carding through his hair, lathering up fine soaps and shampoos to wash dried blood and sweat and dirt from his body.

He felt a cup pressed to his lips, and he greedily drank down the still hot blood inside. He nearly sobbed when he felt it on his tongue again after so long.

He started moving again as Lucifer toweled him off, using his hands to brace himself against the porcelain sink of the vanity and look at himself in the mirror. His eyes flickered from black to hazel and he frowned, before shaking his head.

“There we go.” Lucifer said softly, as if he were talking to a child, and it was everything Sam needed.

He allowed himself to be led into the bedroom Lucifer barely used. He felt his back hit silk sheets, his legs spread.

Strong, cold hands rubbing over his thighs. The swipe of a forked tongue against his hole.

Sam moaned arching his back before he was gently pushed back down by Lucifer. “Relax.” The archangel purred, and Sam obeyed.

Lucifer licked a stripe up his perineum. Left teasing kitten licks on the head of his cock. Kissed up and down his thighs. Probed his deliciously forked tongue deep into Sam’s hole, prepping him.

Lucifer pushed himself into Sam, breaching the demon with one slow thrust. Sam groaned, panting softly and screwing his eyes shut. “Lucifer-“

Lucifer moved in and out at a gentle, tender pace. Working himself up to a climax as Sam’s cock began to leak precum like a faucet, turning a shade of purple because Lucifer hadn’t told him he could cum yet.

When Lucifer was close he breathed the order before he tangled his grace up in Sam’s souls the most perfect act of intimacy the two could achieve, yelled out, and came deep in his boy king.

Sam wailed and spurted over both of their bare chests, writhing underneath his angelic lover even as wings as soft as cotton fuzz wrapped around him and grace as smooth as butter wiped away their mess.

“That’s it. Just sleep. Good boy, Sam. You can relax. You’ve done so well. You don’t need to worry. You’ve atoned. You’re stronger. You’re almost perfect.”

And he did. He drifted off in Lucifer’s gentle embrace, enamored with the rare softness shown and forgetting what had led him to this situation to begin with.


	3. Chapter Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For Dean and Alastair, love is soft touches after a long day. Is the strike of a whip when it flash skin, bares blood and muscle. Most importantly it is seemingly shared control.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you all like this chapter. It was very fun to write, and even more fun to sort of figure out Dean and Alastair’s dynamic. Again, comments and kudos are what have fueled this to hyper-speed of posting, so they are very much treasured and appreciated.
> 
> Chapter specific tags: gore, torture (expect these from most chapters tbh)

_ I spoke into his eyes I thought you died alone, a long long time ago _

Alastair hummed the tune to himself, hitching his slacks up over his thighs. As promised to Lucifer, he didn’t harm Dean for missing his brother. But he sure as hell did exploit the opportunity of it being on the table, hanging it over Dean’s head like a carrot on a stick.

“What’s that, Bowie? When did you get turned on to that?” Dean grunted from his spot in bed, still wrapped up in covers.

“You know, Dean, I do still have free time between babysitting you and getting my work done. If it makes you feel better it was, mm, inspired by you. Congratulations, you pulled my tastes into the 21st century.” Alastair said wryly, eyes flashing white as he fixed the collar of his dress shirt in the mirror. “Get dressed, come on. You’re working on the wrathful today.”

Dean almost opened his mouth to ask for five more minutes, before he thought better of it and pushed himself out of bed. For being one of the oldest demons in Hell (now the oldest, after Lilith had died. Apocalypse or no, she was still the key to Lucifer’s box and sacrifices had to be made) and an ex-hunter, the two had a remarkable understanding. Thirty years under the knife and...wow, Dean didn’t even know how many it had been since then. He really should ask. But being with someone for so long fostered a strange sort of comradery.

“Hey, Al?” Dean asked as he tugged on a pair of faded denim jeans.

“Yes?” 

“How long I been down here? I’m not remembering.” Dean frowned at himself in the mirror, green eyes focused intensely on themselves.

“Oh, one hundred years at the very least. I’m not much good with keeping track myself. Mm, perhaps you should ask Crowley if you have the time. He holds the contracts, he should have yours.”

Dean wrinkled his nose, but nodded.

Alastair chuckled. “I know you don’t like him very much. Mm, far too oily and ambitious for my tastes, but he’s one of the best writers of contracts and deals we have had in a very long time.”

“Yeah, yeah, I know. You hungry?”

“You know I don’t eat much.”

“...You think about getting that tv I asked about?”

“Of course I’ve thought about it, but that doesn’t mean we will.” Alastair hummed. “Though, it is a few weeks away from your birthday topside. I’ll think about it as a gift.”

Dean chuckled. “How human of you. You sure we should be livin’ together?”

Alastair paused, and allowed a rare smile to grace his lips. “Of course. Now go, I won’t have you slacking off no matter how much I like our little chats.”

Dean gave a two fingered salute and did up the last few buttons of his flannel shirt, before walking off.

He knew Hell’s pathways better than most. For many demons they were a twisting maze they could only hope to get around by apparating to their final destination. Dean did not yet have that power, that luxury, so he knew Hell like the back of his hand to make up for it.

And Dean took pride in his work. Not in the same way Alastair did, though he did see the intrinsic beauty in the destruction. No, he looked at a quivering, flayed soul and took pride in the fact he put him there. That he made them beg with his own two hands, that he wrought screams from their belly.

He was so often covered in blood by the end of the day because he got so up close and personal. So carnal in his ripping and tearing and scouring of flesh.

Alastair was more clinical, more artistic. A quick flick of his wrist with a scalpel was often enough to render a soul asunder, but he’d had so much more experience that it came easy. He rarely came home with more than bloodied arms and a spatter or two on his shirt. When he came home looking like there’d been a massacre, it was a good day.

At the end of the day(? Time was weird in hell. For example, Dean felt he had been torturing the wrathful for the better part of two weeks, but he knew that wasn’t the case), Alastair walked in to the flat. His shoes, wet with blood, made soft squelching noises on the carpet and left bloody footprints in his wake.

Dean looked up from where he was reading and could barely contain a grin. “Good day?”

“Very.” Alastair grunted, making a bee-line to the bathroom so he could clean up. He never liked magicking himself clean. It just felt wrong.

Dean nodded and, when the door to the bathroom closed, got up and opened the cabinet under the sink to get what he’d need to clean the carpet. Why Alastair didn’t have hardwood or, god forbid, anything  _ but  _ a white carpet he didn’t understand. It was a pain, but it was better to clean it while it was still fresh rather than after having it dry out.

When Alastair came back out of the bathroom Dean was back in his chair, reading, and the floor was slightly damp but once again white.

The demon hummed his approval, slowly walking over and placing a hand on Dean’s shoulder.

Dean put a mark in his book and looked back, brows raising. “Now?”

“If you don’t mind.” Alastair hummed. Despite what one might think, he and Dean had a relatively equal relationship when it came to sex. He frowned upon rape (saw it as a cop out to real torture. Pedophiles were the exception to that rule) and saw intimacy as a gift that both he and Dean rarely had the pleasure of receiving. 

“Can I finish my chapter?”

Alastair lifted the book to glance at the cover, humming. “If I can sit with you. Coffee?”

“Please.” And suddenly there was a small mug of it on the side table next to him, still steaming. “Thank you.”

Alastair sat down next to Dean and wrapped an arm around his shoulders, relaxing as Dean once again opened his book. “Now, where are you getting all these?” Alastair glanced at the sleeves on the wall- originally books in magic, lore, and anatomy- and where they had been supplemented by short stories and horror novels. “Because I didn’t use to carry Kafka and King.”

“Crowley.”

“I thought you didn’t like him.”

“He’s in the hall of records, Al. I get my books there. There are some things more interesting than the dichotomy of the human body. I can deal with his slimy ass for a few books. And I’ve seen you reading the collection of Lovecraft’s stories I got.”

“A very interesting man. You don’t see people as connected to the rest of the universe like him.”

“You know, if your vessel was younger you’d look kinda like him.” Dean informed, turning a page in  _ The Trial _ . 

“Mm.” Alastair glanced at the mirror on the other side of the wall. “Perhaps.” 

They sat like that in comfortable silence for a short while, Dean reading and drinking and relaxing.

It was days like these Dean treasured most.

When Dean closed his book he hummed, downing the rest of his coffee.

Alastair lifted Dean into his lap and kissed him softly, beard scratching at his cheek.

He didn’t need a collar or a leash to know Dean was his. He knew it in the perfect submission he received. The adoration. The respect.

Dean groaned, reaching to grip at the back of Alastair’s head. He kissed and bit at the demon’s lips, making his own small claim with teeth and tongue.

Alastair hitched his hands under the cruxes of Dean’s knees and stood, carrying Dean with him to the bedroom.

He tossed the man down onto the bed with ease and stripped him bare with a thought.

Dean gasped, spreading his legs obediently and gazing up at Alastair with wide eyes.

When Alastair’s hand wrapped around his throat he moaned, when he was breached dry he let out a choked scream of pleasure.

Alastair wasn’t gentle. Not in his actions, at least. He was a sadist, it paid for him to be, and that translated to the bedroom. When a scene was planned he brought out needles and a flogger and hot irons. When it wasn’t he took a brutal pace and refused to let Dean cum until he was a sobbing, begging mess.

He switched between degrading and praising Dean without a moment’s pause, he tore into him with teeth and knives and made him whole.

Dean wailed as Alastair fucked into him, panting heavily and arching his back.

“That’s it. Take me. You love it.” Alastair hissed, squeezing tighter at Dean’s neck.

Dean groaned, gasping for air between moans and giving a jerky nod as he rocked his hips up into Alastair’s.

Alastair liked to fuck Dean for hours. He came three times this time around, and with each orgasm Dean cried out, begging for one of his own, for some sort of relief.

When he finally was allowed his back bowed off the bed, his eyes snapped open and he  _ screamed _ .

“Oh, you’re alright. You’re okay.” Alastair murmured, slowly pulling out and watching as his cum followed, streaking down Dean’s thighs.

“You’ve done so well. That’s it.” He soothed, and Dean clawed at his back, tears streaming down his face.

“You’re perfect. Just hold me, just like that.”

And Dean slowly soothed, relaxed boneless against his mentor. His everything.

And Alastair would have cheered with delight at his success if he weren’t silently spooning Dean’s back, placing the occasional kiss to his bruised and bloody neck.


	4. Chapter Four

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley’s attempts to improve hell on his own terms don’t sit well with anyone, much less Lucifer. His punishment, though, is executed by Sam.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for your feedback! Like I keep saying, the more you say the more I write. It keeps me chugging along on good pace.
> 
> Is there too much sex happening? Do you want more plot? Is there anything you would want to suggest, or that I can improve upon? Let me know!
> 
> Note: assume gore and torture for almost every chapter  
> Chapter specific tags: sexual violence, demon blood, rape/dubcon

Crowley bowed his head as he walked into the throne room. He didn’t particularly like Lucifer, and Lucifer absolutely despised him- but it wasn’t impossible to have a working relationship with someone you hated.

He looked up to see Lucifer as usual, and Sam with the ever present collar around his neck, eyes dulled and pupils dilated, a smear of blood across his lips. It really was a shame to see him go from a headstrong, critical hunter to this.

Nonetheless, he cleared his throat and went off with a barely perceptible pause. “Lucifer,” He greeted. “I have the numbers for the crossroads this quarter, as requested.” He approached the throne. “May I?”

Lucifer hummed, tapping his lower lip with his thumb. “Yeah, yeah, let me take a look.” He accepted a file folder when it was offered and flipped it open. “I see you’ve switched over to english.”

“It’s much more efficient, don’t you think? The younger demons don’t know infernal, this way it can be better reviewed and edited.” Crowley explained with a small air of nervousness in his tone.

“Mm.” Lucifer flipped through it. “No. I don’t think that at all. What have I told you about your innovations, Crowley?”

“...Not to have them, my lord. I simply assumed you-“

“You assumed wrong. Don’t be a kissass about it.” Lucifer muttered. “Next time I get these reports I want them in infernal. And I don’t want them ‘reviewed’ by lesser demons.”

“Of- of course, my lord, anything you say. Truly, your wisdom knows no bounds-“

“Again with the brown-nosing.” Lucifer remarked coldly, eyes flashing scarlet. “Get on with it. And...well, why don’t you tell me why we’ve had a drop in England? A complete drop, might I add. No deals. No summonings. Or, rather, no one showing up to summonings, because those are steady on track.” His tone grew more dangerous and Crowley cringed.

“Well, my king, it was an experiment with-“

“With whom. With what.” Lucifer shifted on the throne, forked tongue darting out between his lips.

Crowley closed his eyes for a few seconds. So this was the day he’d be smitten. He let out a shaky sigh. “The, er, supernatural organization-“

“The one I told you not to broker with. The ones I told you to slaughter next time they approached you for a deal like this.” Lucifer summarized, voice calm before he exploded out of the throne and threw the folder across the room and he wrapped burning cold fingers around Crowley’s throat.

The demon choked out a soft whine and kicked his feet as he was lifted off the ground, face contorting in pain as the sparks of grace underneath Lucifer’s skin burned him. “Yes-“ He gasped out, screwing his eyes shut.

Lucifer nodded slowly, swallowing and running his tongue over his teeth before throwing Crowley against the opposite wall with a yell. “You need to learn your place!” He bellowed, wings spreading being him, eyes flashing with corrupted grace.

When Crowley fell to the floor he curled up into a tight ball, holding his arms defensively over his face.

Lucifer stalked forwards after him, driving his foot into Crowley’s chest and nodding when he heard the cracking of his ribs and a shout of pain. “You don’t make decisions like this without my permission.” He growled, grabbing Crowley by his cheeks and lifting him back up. “You don’t undermine my direct orders.” He paused. “I’m not going to kill you.” He decided. “No, not yet, you still have your uses, don’t you?”

Crowley nodded weakly, eyes dazed and far away.

“So I’m going to leave you here with Sammy. And you’re not going to fight back, or run away.” Lucifer hummed, slamming Crowley against the stone wall so hard it cracked with the force of it. “And I’m going to go up and burn their chapter house in London to the ground. I’m going to slaughter them all.” He promised.

Crowley whimpered, eyes slipping shut as he was once again dropped to the floor and Lucifer disappeared with a few powerful wing beats.

Sam finally moved from his spot, looking down at Crowley. He reached up to wipe at his mouth, sliding a knife out from his belt.

“Christ.” Crowley breathed. “All hopped up on ovaltine, are we? Come on Sam, we don’t have to do this, do we?”

Sam shook his head. “You and I both know you don’t get to disobey Lucifer. I can’t believe the balls on you, Crowley. You really went to the BLM?” He wiped the still blood slicked blade on his pants, humming softly.

“It’s the deal of the lifetime if they stop hunting demons in Europe.” Crowley pressed back, brow creasing as he groaned in pain. 

“It’s up to him to decide that.” Sam fisted his hand in Crowley’s short hair and pulled him up. “Isn’t it?”

Crowley clenched his jaw, eyes flickering red defiantly. He flinched back when Sam’s flickered black in turn.

“Doesn’t really matter if you agree with me or not. Just say it.” Sam pressed the tip of the knife against Crowley’s throat. “You’re not stupid. Don’t make this the hill you die on, hm? Be a good boy, Crowley.”

Crowley glared up at him before slumping. “It’s...it is up to Lucifer to decide, Sam.”

“Prince. That’s what I am to you.” Sam corrected. When he got the opportunity to exert dominance he took it and ran with it.

Crowley’s Adam’s Apple bobbed as he swallowed. “Of course, my prince.” He murmured.

“I can make this good for you.” Sam pressed the tip of the knife in harder, drawing a few beads of blood. “If you ask.”

Crowley groaned softly. Much like other demons, pain brought its own special sort of pleasure. A coping mechanism learned under the knife for most, but Crowley had been a masochist since before he sold his soul.

“Tick tock, Crowley.” Sam crooned, dragging the knife across the demon’s throat. He watched blood flow down across Crowley’s collar and he wet his lips, eyes blown wide with lust and greed.

“Please.” Crowley breathed, panting softly and arching up as Sam placed a hand on either of his shoulders, forcing his broken back against the wall.

Sam licked and bit at Crowley’s neck, savoring the feeling of blood on his tongue, sliding down his throat. He bit down and tore into the flesh and wrought a quickly silenced scream from Crowley as he reached down to palm at the demon’s length.

Crowley gasped and gurgled as blood bubbled up past his lips, eyes flashing a weak, watery red as he thrust up into Sam’s hand.

Sam took all Crowley had and more, leaving his throat in tatters before he forced the older demon to his knees. “Mouth open.” He ordered, and Crowley’s lips were like heaven on his cock, sucking and licking and smearing blood and precum over his length until he came, adding streaks of white to Crowley’s red face, neck, and chest.

“Good boy.” Sam said as he stowed himself, forcing Crowley back to his feet. He used his knife to cut down the front of his chest, tearing the fine black suit to pieces as he kissed and bit and tore and cut all over, leaving the demon a whimpering, pathetic mess.

He took care to inform him of this, of his position. Of how laughable it was that a former hunter was gutting him like a fish and how sad it was he had the gall to beg for more. He really was worthless. A kicked puppy crawling back to its master for any scrap of affection.

“That’s it. I like that. Puppy.” Sam smirked, looking up. His face was smeared with blood and pieces of skin and muscle and his eyes were a beautiful, terrible black. “That’s what I’ll call you. Do you like it?”

Crowley could only nod, having long since lost the voice to scream and vocalize. He clawed weakly at Sam, blinking slowly.

“More? Such a greedy little thing you are, puppy. I’ll indulge you, just this once.” Sam knelt down and steadied Crowley when his knees buckled. 

The demon’s eyes slipped shut as Sam hitched down his trousers and pulled out his cock, giving an almost teasing wolf whistle. “So the rumors are true, then.” He wrapped his lips around the head of Crowley’s member, and even on his knees he held all the power. 

He sucked Crowley down until he came, and after that, he made a deep cut along his length and did it again, red and white mingling on his tongue, salty and coppery and perfect.

By the time Lucifer returned, mouth set in a grim line, Sam was back at his post and Crowley was collapsed on the floor, holding his innards in place with one blood soaked hand and letting out rough, wet wheezing breaths.

“Get out. Heal yourself.” Lucifer snapped. “Pathetic.” He watched as Crowley struggled to his feet and staggered out, using the wall for support.

“Did we have fun, little prince?” Lucifer arched a brow and lowered himself to sit on his throne.

“Yes, my king.” Sam bowed his head.

“I’m proud of you.”

And those four words made Sam feel even better than before, made him feel like he was soaring over the clouds, over the moon.


	5. Chapter Five

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lucifer and Alastair have...artistic differences when it comes to dealing with Sam and Dean. Lucifer gets his way. When Dean sees Sam next he doesn’t recognize him.
> 
> Chapter specific tags: isolation, torture, referenced incest and rape (last lines of chapter)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank y’all so much for your feedback! It means the world to me. If you have anything you want to see let me know, and any criticism is much appreciated.
> 
> I am a big Dumbo and don’t use plot outlines- so I just write what comes to mind- and your ideas and insights about the characters spark that writing. I’m not asking you To write for me, but just telling me what you like or what you think a characters motivation might be, theories or whatnot gets me through one or more chapters from just one of your comments.

Lucifer tapped his lip as he waited, sprawled out on the throne. He didn’t really sit in it ‘typically’, not often. This time his legs were slung over one arm of the throne and his back leaned against the other. Sam has been left in the bedroom. This meeting was one better left unheard by him.

When the doors swung open he let out a put upon sigh and gave his wings a small flap. “You’re late.” He said, raising red eyes to meet white ones.

“I was busy.” Alastair excused simply. He hadn’t even had time to clean. He looked like he’d just stepped out of a massacre.

“Too busy for me?” Lucifer raised his brows. “Or too vested in your work.”

“Perhaps a bit of both.” Alastair admitted, brows raised. “Well? Why have you called me?”

Lucifer hummed. “Yeah, no. That’s not how this works. You and I? This isn’t an equal relationship. No matter how old you are, how valuable you are- don’t get cocky. Understand?”

Alastair stared for a few seconds, before he cleared his throat. “Understood. Now…?”

“Why I called you. Yes.” Lucifer stood and Alastair took a step back. “Sam and Dean…”

“What about them? They have their monthly chats, they’re both staying in their lane. What’s the problem?”

“Would you let me finish?” Lucifer snapped, wings puffing up in a display of dominance. “The problem is that they’re getting comfortable with eachother. They’re acting human.”

“Dean _is_ still human.” Alastair pointed out. “And depriving him of this now puts him in jeopardy, we both know this.”

“I don’t care about him.” Lucifer said firmly.

“What, because he looks like your brother?” Alastair challenged. “Because you’re jealous he was willing to die for Sam and Michael could give a rat’s ass about you? That’s not fair to him and it’s not fair to yourself.”

Lucifer clenched his jaw and took a few steps forward. “Next time they meet you won’t interfere when Sam does what he was meant to do. What _we_ were meant to do.” His jaw ticked when he saw Alastair stood his ground.

The demon couldn’t be cowed quite as easily as the rest of them. He’d seen Lucifer at his weakest, his most vulnerable. He’d seen Lucifer when he still loved his father.

“And if Dean takes charge.” He hummed. “You won’t interfere? Or does your nepotism really run that high?” Alastair felt his vessel’s neck snap when he was hit and he groaned, chuckling softly.

“Did you hear anything I said?” Lucifer asked quietly, though that was enough to put even Alastair on edge. “I won’t hurt you, Al. We both know you’d enjoy it more than me. But I will teach you a lesson. Dean can function on his own for a hundred years more, can’t he? If you’re going to disrespect me in my own throneroom,” Lucifer’s voice was steadily rising, grace sparking through the air. “You don’t deserve your position. You certainly don’t deserve your little boy toy.”

“If you take me away from my post our ranks won’t expand as readily. I don’t just torture souls, Lucifer, I teach.” Alastair said firmly, looking down at the archangel.

“Do I look like I care? It's your fault then, if Hell suffers for it. Because if you weren’t such an insolent, holier than thou piece of crap I wouldn’t have to do this.” Lucifer grabbed Alastair by the back of his neck, broken bones shifting under his fingers. “Now, should I repurpose the cage or make you a special room all to yourself?”

Alastair said nothing, only stumbling along as he was dragged out of the throneroom.

Lucifer wasn’t so cruel as to throw him into the cage. There was no greater torment in hell, nothing that so perfectly captured one's greatest fears, their innermost thoughts and turned them against themselves.

A door appeared in the hallway, carving itself into the stone as Lucifer approached. He yanked it open and gave Alastair a bone shattering kick to the back as a parting gift.

The room Alastair found himself in was a blinding white, with no discernible features. The door disappeared after it closed, and he was left alone. He couldn’t see himself. Couldn’t hear himself, couldn’t feel the pain in his back and neck anymore.

He’d done this to a soul, before. They’d gone insane, the entire experience had to be scrubbed from their mind. He just had to try and keep his mind busy, keep himself occupied…

Dean came back to an empty flat. It wasn’t an unusual occurrence. What was unusual, though, was the next week of having to get himself up and torture souls on his own. He didn’t realize how much he depended on Alastair until he was gone.

The a month after that. Get up, make breakfast, brush his teeth, torture souls for however long a day decided to last, go home, relax, shower, bed. Maybe hit up the weird not bar where demons congregated if he got bored of the routine. Problem was he always got a killer migraine after because the drinks were made to get demons drunk, not humans.

A month and two weeks in and there was a knock on the door before it swung open. Dean was reading, listening to ‘Sitting on Top of the World’ and laying out on the couch. “Al?” He asked, eyes not raising from the text.

“Not quite.”

Dean paused, before giving a beaming smile and shoving a mark in his book. “Sammy.” He greeted, sitting up. “Come on in. I wasn’t really expectin’ to see you. Want a drink?”

Sam paused imperceptibly, before shaking his head. “No.” He decided, standing there.

Dean looked up at him, brow creasing. That didn’t look like Sam to him. That looked like a Sam shaped thing that didn’t know what to do without orders, without blood on its hands. Not that he was doing much better. “Alrighty then. I’m gonna have a beer.” Dean stood up and started to walk over to the small kitchen.

He ducked in the split second that Sam swung for him and grabbed a knife from the block, eyes wide. “What the hell, man?!” He shouted, eyes wide. “Did Lucifer tell you to do this?” He asked, taking a defensive stance.

“That doesn’t matter.” Sam brushed him off, advancing on his brother. “I’m here to take what’s mine,”

Dean looked up at Sam and he didn’t recognize who he saw. He couldn’t go against him, the dynamic was different. Sam was his superior, but...no. Sam was his brother. This was bullshit. Alastair wasn’t there, he could do what he wanted. “Yeah, tough luck with that.” He drove the tip of the knife right through Sam’s wrist and into the wall, earning a hiss of pain from his brother.

Sam grunted and yanked at his hand, watching as Dean grabbed another knife. He chuckled. “You never learn, do you?” He asked, glaring at the chef’s knife and watching as it wriggled itself free of the wall and fell to the floor with a clatter.

“You think you’re so much better than me, don’t you? You always have.” Sam raised his hand and watched his blood spill to the floor. “So fucking annoying.” He flexed his palm and watched as Dean slammed against the wall. “Now I’m going to take what I want. And I think you’ll like it.”

Dean groaned, but grit his teeth and silenced himself in short order. This wasn’t Sam anymore and the more he thought the more frantic, and high energy his mind got. What the hell was he doing here? He was living with a demon and happy with it. His own brother was about to do God knew what and then go back to the actual fucking devil to guzzle down _demon blood_. This was insane. He let out a sardonic sort of chuckle and shook his head, immediately distancing himself from the situation and zoning out. 30 years on the rack had taught him well enough to be able to do that.

And with Dean unresponsive, Sam really had to work to get anything out of him. Because he didn’t know how to love his brother anymore, Lucifer had forced that from him. But he needed the affection, deep down in the barely human part of him. He worked Dean over until tears were streaming down his face, until the pristine white carpets were sticky with drying blood.

He turned Dean around and slammed his face into the wall. He finally got a reaction when he forced himself into his brother. It was the only affection he knew how to show. The only way he knew how to give was to take.

Dean screamed and begged because in all his time in hell he’d never been raped. Never raped anybody.

Sam left as quickly as he came and abandoned Dean in a puddle of blood and vomit and cum. And from where Lucifer was watching in the shadows there was laughter.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Before you say anything, *yes*, I know, most of you don’t like Alastair and want to skip straight to the Lucifer and Dean bit, but honestly with how this is going I don’t know if/when that will happen. I hope you can put up with a little more of my bad writing.
> 
> Chapter specific tags: Lucifer is an Ass, manipulation, aftermath of torture, tough love from Al

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for your feed back! Whether it be about how awful and generic my story is, or if it’s a valid insight into what you like/what you think is wrong, I appreciate it.

Sam had a Good night after that. It was good because Lucifer told him it was, and it was good because he was praised for his work. Lucifer gave him the love his soul needed, and seeds were planted that made him begin to despise Dean because why couldn’t he be as good as Lucifer, why did he have to betray him? Sam didn’t know what exactly Dean had done but he was assured it had been terrible.

“Sam?” 

“Yes.” Sam didn’t even have to hear the full question anymore, and he proved himself on knowing what Lucifer needed. He closed his eyes as the room was bathed in the cold white of Lucifer’s grace, and he welcomed in the pleasure-pain that was the archangel. Sam liked to fall into a sort of sleep in these times, get the rest he wouldn’t receive otherwise.

Lucifer opened his eyes and flexed his fingers, stretching. Being in Sam was perfect. In Nick, the world was somewhat deadened to him, he couldn’t feel, he couldn’t see as well. Nick was like a clumsy mitten over an artist’s hand, while Sam was like a second skin. “There we go.” He hummed, eyes flashing scarlet. “Isn’t that nice?” He ran a hand through his hair and nodded, walking out of the throneroom.

After turning down a few hallways and passages (hell was a maze, sometimes even for him) a familiar door opened up on the wall.

Lucifer smirked and smoothed his hand over the ornate, carved stone.

Light from torches flickered across the walls and bathed them in red and gold, making the water and dampness glisten like diamonds.

He pushed the door open for the first time in a month and his eyes widened imperceptibly. It wasn’t much of a white room anymore, walls and floor and even some of the short ceiling bathed in red. 

Alastair was sat crosslegged in the corner, blinking rapidly as his senses returned to him.

First, for example, he realized he was wet. Hot and sticky. Then came the crushing pain of a hundred years of self mutilation. It was enough to wring a choked scream from his lips and make him double over onto the floor, hands sliding in fresh blood. 

His eyes flashed white and he saw. The black brown of dried blood, the hot red of the fresh blood. Loops of intestine spilled onto the floor.

He heard Sam laughing. Lucifer, Sam, it was all the same to him, really. He knew Sam wasn’t autonomous anymore, and he wondered vaguely how long it had really been.

Lucifer stalked forwards, white shoes squelching in the mess on the floor. “How we feelin’, Al? Better?”

Alastair rescued up to clutch weakly at the sides of his head, closing his eyes again.

“Mm. That’s what I thought. Some alone time really does wonders for the soul, doesn’t it? Maybe you and Dean can have a quality chat about staying in line.” His hand wrapped around the back of Alastair’s neck and he thrust the demon forwards, out of the room.

When Alastair was faced with something more than the already overwhelming smell and taste of blood and Lucifer-Sam talking to him he let out a choked whine, gripping at the wall to steady himself.

He swallowed thickly and even the feeling of his raw from screaming throat working was too much.

A few minutes of standing there helped. He refamiliarized himself with sensation as a whole, letting out soft, quivering breaths before he pushed himself up, wobbling slightly. He clenched his jaw upon seeing Lucifer behind him. “How long.” He croaked.

“A month for me, just over one hundred years for you.”

Alastiar’s eyes narrowed. “And what exactly has that accomplished?”

Nothing. Soul counts went down, as predicted, and then after Sam had his fun Dean (one of the best after Alastair) stopped as well. It had accomplished less than nothing, but Lucifer wasn’t one to admit that. “Do you want me to march you right back in there, Alastair?”

The demon said nothing, “May I take my leave, sir?” He asked in a half pleasing, half sarcastic tone that rubbed Lucifer the wrong way but it wasn’t as if he could punish Alastair for saying the right things.

He shook his head. “Fine. Fine, go. You’re back at your post tomorrow. Don’t let this interfere with your productivity.” And with that Lucifer disappeared back to the throneroom. Sometimes he was at a loss with how to deal with Alastair. He was one of the first demons he made. The first after Lilith. He didn’t see the irony in him playing favorites with his second born creation only to punish it for his own ineptitude. Alastair did, but he wouldn’t say that. Talking about Michael put him on shaky ground, talking about God felt like it would be the end of him.

Alastair slumped, scrubbing his hands over his face. He doubted he’d gone insane. At least, not from the white room. Any madness he had was his own.

He composed himself in short order and took a few steps before simply apparating to the front door of his flat. He pushed it open and froze.

Dean was lying there on the floor. Where he’d been left by Sam weeks ago.

Alastair stared for a few seconds, holding himself up against the wall. He shuffled over and prodded Dean’s side with the tip of his shoe, rolling him over. Dean groaned softly and curled in on himself. “Please, no, Sam-“ He breathed out, clutching at his sides.

Alastair clenched his jaw. He was caught between being angry with Dean and angry at Lucifer, so he decided to be both and call it a day. “Get up.” He growled. “Get up. What the hell is wrong with you?”

Dean sobbed when he heard Alastair’s voice, struggling to push himself to his feet. “I’m sorry-“

“Good. You should be. What, just because I’m gone you think you get to take a break? Let yourself soak in self pity?” He demanded, but leaned down to help Dean up the rest of the way.

“He-“

“Don’t talk about it.” Alastair said, casting his glance down to the floor and sighing. “You’ll make yourself more upset.”

Dean finally raised his eyes to look at Alastair. “What happened?”

“It doesn’t matter.” Alastair said, eyes flashing white for a second as if to say ‘look at me, everything is fine’ when it really wasn’t. “Sam did this?”

Dean nodded.

“Forget about him. Stop treating him like your brother and it won’t hurt so much. Because you can deal with pain, Dean, I know you can.” Alastair hummed, biting the bullet and clearing the mess and injuries to both of them away with a thought. “What you can’t deal with is knowing your brother is capable of giving it to you.”

Dean opened his mouth to speak before nodding and staggering over to sit on the couch. He didn’t need to say anything, Alastair had hit the nail on the head. That wasn’t Sam anymore and that scared him more than anything.

“You don’t need to seek Sam for comfort. Mm, take pleasure in knowing that you won’t need him as a coping mechanism. I can stop the visits, if you’d like.”

“Please.” Dean breathed, and when Alastair sat next to him he wrapped his arms around the older demon and buried his face in his chest.

“I’m going to put you on the rack. Just for tomorrow.” Alastair murmured. “Give you a different pain to focus on. Would you like that?”

And Dean could only say ‘please’ and silently beg that tomorrow would come today.


	7. Chapter Seven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam is faced with what he’s done, and we get a valuable insight into Lucifer’s mind.
> 
> Chapter specific tags: aftermath of rape, Lucifer is still an Ass, cage aftermath, cage angst, possession

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Man, am I jazzed after posting each chapter. I just can’t wait to read your comments! It is a little silly, but they really do make my day. :)

Sam tried to think sometimes. When there was less demon blood in his system he wasn’t so consumed by anger and loyalty, he tried to clear his mind. Somehow Lucifer always knew. Sam sometimes got to the point where he was angry with Lucifer and even angrier at himself for not being able to do anything about it.

Nowadays he just cried. When he was alone. He’d been two days without demon blood, and was in Lucifer’s room, crying his eyes out into the soft silk sheets. 

He didn’t hear the door creak open. He just jerked wildly when a hand was placed on his shoulder and Lucifer was there. His face contorted into a conflicted mix of anger and sadness and love and loyalty and he pressed back.

Lucifer certainly had a silver tongue. He knew just how to use it, just how to read Sam’s emotions because looking at Sam was sometimes just like looking in a mirror. “What’s wrong, little prince?” He asked, voice soft and soothing as he clambered onto the bed.

Sam, predictably, pushed at Lucifer’s shoulders to try and get him away before he stopped and accepted the comfort he was offered, shaking.

“Tell me what’s wrong, let me help you.

“I raped him.” Sam choked.

“No, Sam.” Lucifer shook his head. “He asked for it, didn’t he? I don’t think you remember him saying no, do you. You would have told me if you did. I would have seen it.” He reasoned. “And even if he didn’t ask for it, the way he treated you? He may as well have been on his knees begging, baby, you just gave him what he needed.”

Sam shook his head. “No- he told me to stop, I was there, I- I couldn’t stop. He’s my brother-“

“I think you need a drink, Sammy.”

“Don’t call me that!” Sam suddenly exclaimed. “Don’t- get away from me.” He choked out, practically shaking with the effort of just saying that.

Lucifer’s brows raised. “Oh, Sam. And to think we were doing so well. Come on. Get up.” He grabbed Sam by his shoulders and yanked him up off the bed, entire demeanor calm while Sam struggled and kicked.

“No!” Sam said forcefully, for the first time in a long time. “Let me go, let me-“

“I think you’re long overdue to feed. That’s why we’re in all this mess, isn’t it? My fault for trusting you to behave.” Lucifer lamented, before tossing Sam against the wall with barely any effort.

Sam’s eyes flashed black and he lashed out. Lucifer felt the wave of power pass over him, push him back a few inches.

Then he was well and truly angry. “Do you want to try that again, Sam?” He asked, stalking forward and lifting Sam up by the collar around his neck; effectively choking him. “Go on. I’ll give you a free hit if you want it.” He baited. 

Sam rescued up to grip at Lucifer’s wrist, struggling for each breath. He brought his knee up into the archangel’s groin and Lucifer didn’t even flinch.

“Poor choice.” Lucifer informed, returning the blow with twice the strength and dropping Sam to leave him a groaning mess on the floor.

“You’re worthless.” He bit out, driving his foot into Sam’s ribs. “Nothing without me, without my orders. How dare you! After I’ve done so much for you, after I’ve loved you, this is the thanks I get?!”

Sam let out a feeble cry of pain, jerking back and clawing at Lucifer’s lower leg.

“Shameful. That’s what this is, Sam. You’ve disappointed me. You don’t want that, I know you don’t. We can forget this, can’t we?” He prompted. “Don’t be an idiot, Sam. You can be happy by my side, you can love me. Just stop trying to question it. You humans, demons- all of you, so flawed. Destined for disaster if you don’t have a firm hand to guide you. Come on, Samuel. You know how perfect we feel together. My wings on your back. My grace twined with your soul. Don’t tell me you don’t want that?”

Sam faltered, fresh tears springing in his eyes before he nodded. “Please.” He breathed, because he didn’t want to have control anymore if it hurt so bad. Because after so long, so many attempts, he finally just wanted to surrender one last time. “Please. I’m sorry. I love you.” He begged. He didn’t love Lucifer, not really, but he didn’t know that because this was the only ‘love’ he’d had in so very very long. He was beyond broken. If Crowley was a dog he was an even worse one coming to a far more terrible master time and time again.

Lucifer’s grace was so cold it burned. Violent and tearing with jagged, sharp edges ripping down Sam’s throat and coiling around his very essence. His body felt like it was being jerked around on celestial marionette strings, the words pouring from his mouth forced out of him like steam from a bellows.

He whimpered, before his entire body stilled and Lucifer stood. “Of course, I can’t  _ not  _ punish you. What sort of king would I be if I chose favorites?”

One thing Lucifer so loved about sharing a mind was that memories weren’t exclusive. He could look into Sam’s thoughts and feelings and, more importantly, he could show Sam his. His experiences, his true form, that was enough to send any human to a padded cell. He didn’t care, he could always rebuild Sam’s mind to his specifications.

So all he did was move Sam’s consciousness into a memory of the cage.

The cage was hell in its purest form. It’s intended form. Absence from god. From creation. From everything. Cloying blackness, a lack of light. The torments there weren’t created by god but by Lucifer himself. His punishment was being trapped with his own mind, corrupted by the mark. And if Lucifer was anything, he was a vicious, self deprecating bastard.

He heard Sam scream when he stood up. Begging, pleading. ‘Let me out! Lucifer, please, I don’t deserve this.’

Lucifer closed his eyes and his own cries echoed back. ‘Father, please. I’m sorry. Let me love you. Let me see you, see anything. Father, father, daddy, let me out, it’s been so long. It hurts so bad. My wings still feel like they’re burning.

Dad, I’m sorry. But they’re so flawed, you must see it. I can see what happens sometimes. Maybe I’m just imagining it. Maybe I finally went insane. But they wage war on eachother, they rape and pillage and destroy. Why can’t you let me out?

I’m sorry. I miss you. Where are you? Just let me hear your voice. You’re beautiful

I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to, I didn’t know it was wrong, I-

Fine. Fuck you, then. Fuck all of you. Fuck heaven, fuck humans, fuck your plan. Why would you plan for this? Selfish bastard. You call yourself a god. Fuckfuckfuckfuck-‘

Lucifer slammed his fist into the wall and clenched his jaw, eyes flashing red. It didn’t do well to dwell on the past. Especially not his past. He marched into the throneroom, put on a winning smile, and lounged back in his throne. Crowley was there with a report. And for once, it went without incident.

“Good puppy.” He crooned. “Now run on back to your records, Crowley. I don’t want to see your ugly face again until you next report.” He hummed and leaned back. He didn’t dare close his eyes.


	8. Chapter Eight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ah, yes. The classic combination of 80’s movie nostalgia and deep backstory. No story is complete without it.
> 
> Chapter specific tags: unsurprisingly Lucifer’s status as a massive asshole remains unchanged, referenced torture, lore nugget!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dean *loves* Labrynth and The Dark Crystal and you cannot convince me otherwise. That is an eighties boy right there.
> 
> Aside from that, thank you again for your support and feedback! I must sound like a stuck record saying this, but it means the world to me.

For Dean and Alastair, it was back to business as usual for the most part. As close to it as they could get, anyways.

Alastair had caved and meandered up to earth to get a television, and rather than a nightly fucking or reading session, Dean caught the demon up on what he liked, what he grew up with. It was hard living with someone who hadn’t been on earth since assisting with Mengele’s experiments. ...though Dean preferred not to acknowledge that time in Alastair’s history.

“So these are just...puppets?”

“Cool, right?” Dean chuckled, leaning back.

“All of them.”

“Every last critter.”

“Why?”

“Why not.” Dean shrugged. “Man, I thought you’d like this. Especially the Chamberlain.” He glanced back at the screen, leaning against Alastair’s side.

“Oh, no, I do like it. It’s just odd. Considering my last experiences with your culture.” Alastair hummed. 

“Our culture- you used to be human, come on. You can’t be that far removed from it. How old even are you?” Dean scoffed. He’d always thought Alastair fibbed about his ‘vast seniority’. With him being permanently (for the most part, but the session a few days ago had been purely therapeutic) off the rack, he and the demon had grown a lot more amiable. Past working hours, more was tolerated.

Alastair’s brow creased as he thought back. He didn’t particularly enjoy thinking about his time as a human. “I’ve lost track.”

“Ballpark it.”

Alastair sighed. “There are some things I don’t need to discuss with you, Dean. My age and origin are two of them.”

Dean huffed and turned his attention back to the screen.

“You’re getting greedy, you know.” Alastair informed matter-of-factly. “Eating up all my time like this. I could be working a soul over right now.”

“You don’t sound too upset about it.”

“...No, I don’t suppose I am. I enjoy having company.”

“Yeah, in bed.” Dean snorted and earned himself a smack upside the head.

“More than that.” Alastair hummed softly. “So these- what was it? The little...human ones.”

“Gelfling.”

“Yes, the gelfling. Do we get an explanation of the war? Or how the skeksis came to power?”

Dean chuckled softly. “Man, leave it to you to want to get your geek on over a Jim Henson movie. I bet if you asked Crowley he might have one of the novels or somethin’.”

“Mm, no. You’re going to do that. I won’t-“

“Ruin your pristine reputation? Fine, I’ll nab it for you.” Dean said, before he sighed. He could pretend to be domestic all he wanted, and it helped- it helped so, so much but he still felt so wrong. So violated. Abandoned. “Can I ask something?”

“Is it my age?”

“No. It’s not.” Dean looked down at his lap.

“Go on, then.”

“Where were you?”

Alastair sighed heavily. “I suppose because I gave you permission to ask I have to answer now, don’t I?”

“Them’s the rules.”

“How shall I phrase this...ah. Do you remember in your tenth year on the rack? Where I left you alone for a week.”

Dean shuddered. “Yeah.”

“Lucifer and I had a disagreement. Something similar was my punishment.” Alastair surmised.

Dean frowned. “How long?”

“A month.” Alastair lied easily, leaning back on the sofa. “It wasn’t all that bad.”

Dean didn’t believe him. He knew Al was a masochist, and apparently Lucifer did too. But no soul he had seen undergo abandonment like that would describe it as ‘not all that bad’. 

“What was the argument about?”

“You and your brother.” Alastair said after a short pause. He may as well tell the truth about that.

“And that led to…”

“Most likely. Just watch your picture, Dean.” Alastair sighed and stood. “I’m going to get some work done.” And before Dean could protest, he was gone.

Dean sighed and scrubbed his hands over his face. He flipped the television set off and lay back in the couch. He fell asleep there.

Alastair appeared in his chambers. They looked like an odd mix between a lecture hall, an antique shop, and a first grade science classroom. He let out a calming breath and pulled out a leather bound (he’d tanned the stuff himself. Due to the nature of healing in Hell, you could take practically any part you wanted from a soul and it would grow back. And he could get a wonderfully buttery soft leather from any human if he tried hard enough) book on enochian, flipping through it. He raised his eyes a little higher and spotted a fig on the shelf above where he’d taken the book from.

He picked it up, hand shaking lightly before he tossed it into the fireplace in the other side of the room.

“I thought you liked my gifts.” Lucifer spoke from behind him. “What’cha reading?”

“Not when they’re that.” Alastair said firmly. “And this is one of my personal tomes.” He replaced it on the shelf, fingers tracing over the tattoo preserved on the spine. “Why are you bothering me right now?” He turned around and found he was eye-level with Sam. Lucifer. Once again, to him, same difference.

“No? Then again, you don’t have much to gain from it this time. And I can bother you whenever I like, hoss.”

“Looking back, I had nothing to gain the first time either,” Alastair snapped. “Get out of my chambers.”

“Don’t be a spoilsport.” Lucifer pouted, “Why, don’t you like talking about the glory days? We used to be so much closer.”

“Used, being the operative word.” With a wave of his hand Alastair summoned a fresh soul to the rack in the center of the room.

“You don’t get to ignore me.” Lucifer appeared in front of Alastair. Come on, Ad-“

Alastair brought the scalpel he had in hand down into Lucifer’s chest. “Mm, don’t talk about me and I won’t make a dig at you and your father. You have no right to come in here and say that. Say anything.”

Lucifer chuckled and pulled it out, bringing it up to his lips and using either side of his forked tongue to clean the flats of the blade. “Tch, you’re no fun.” He handed it back. “Just came to let you know, I’m setting up another ‘playdate’ for Sam and Dean.”

“You’ll do no such thing. I’m putting an end to them.”

“Oh, but that wouldn’t be fair to Sam, would it? He misses his big brother…”

Alastair said nothing, even though every fiber in his body wanted to tear the archangel to pieces, because firstly Dean was  _ his _ , and secondly how dare Lucifer stoop so low as to order a rape. Even Alastair had never done that.

“That’s settled, then. See you next week…” Lucifer disappeared and Alastair slumped, dropping the scalpel to the stone floor with a clatter.


	9. Chapter Nine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We get insight as to what’s going on with Sam, and a little bit more about Lucifer’s experiences with the cage.
> 
> Chapter specific tags: explanation for Lucifer’s ass-status, cage angst, Lucifer angst

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m sorry for the shorter chapter, but it says all that needs to be said I think. Again, stuck record here, but thank you all so much for your support! Comments and advice are greatly appreciated.

Lucifer, please, I’m so sorry. I’m so- please let me out. I just wanna see you. Please.” 

Lucifer closed his eyes. Just a little while more, and he’d let Sam out. Part of him was happy someone else was suffering through the cage. That he wouldn’t be alone in his pain.

“That’s all I want, you can do anything to me. Please. I’m- there’s things in th-the dark I know it they’re gonna kill me, Luce-“

Lucifer was surprised it had taken this long for Sam to start seeing things. For Lucifer it had been Michael, at first. Then his father. He peered into his own mind to check in, keeping himself hidden.

Sam was curled into a tight ball, eyes shut against the nothingness that surrounded him. The darkness twisted into different shapes, guided by Sam’s cracked and breaking mind. Dean. Azazel. Lucifer.

It was Lucifer most of the time. It never hurt Sam. Just talked. Talking, sometimes, was the worst thing you could do to a person.

‘I’m never going to let you out of here, Sammy. You wanna know why?’ The apparition asked. ‘You disappointed me. Big time, buddy. There’s no coming back from that. Eventually you’re going to die in here. We both know it. All I have to do is wait.’

“That’s not true. This isn’t real, this isn’t-“

Lucifer immediately pulled himself out. He could still hear the faint whispers of Sam’s conversation with himself.

He actually began to wonder if he’d gone too far with this punishment. The cage was built only for one being, and Lucifer already knew the memories of it were toxic to him. He lounged back on the throne and thought back, eyes going dazed.

“Come on, Lucifer, you know I never really loved you. That mark on your grace? That corruption? Wasn’t a gift. I just wanted to get rid of you faster.”

He’d wrapped his wings tightly around his body, cowering back, making himself as small as possible as he raked his nails through the feathers for some semblance of calm.

“And this is it. Forever. What, you really think I’d let you out to fight Michael? That was just to get him to agree with this. You always have been the most gullible of my children. Why do you think no one else wanted to bear the mark? Michael has always been my favorite. You’re a failed copy.”

And it went on and on until he had finally believed it.

In all reality, Chuck had never envisioned the cage being so bad. It was just supposed to be empty. He underestimated the power of an archangel’s will, their power to shape and create. Lucifer made a new family in the cage, one that was just as bitter and cruel as he would soon become. He would never say He regretted it. But seeing this going on now, He felt that way. It was never supposed to end up like this.

The mold of a plan was meant to be broken, but by the vessels. Not by the archangels, not by heaven and hell.

Lucifer would never know that. Chuck doubted sometimes that anyone would, because it’s not like He had anyone to confide in but His unpublished books.

Lucifer roused himself from his trance, scrubbing his hands over his face. Just a little longer. 

After another day it was starting to get to  _ him _ . Even more than it had been, that is. This was a punishment for Sam, not himself.

Sam sobbed when he could finally see out of his own two eyes. He took control of his body and wrapped his arms around himself, shaking. “I thought you were going to leave me- I’m sorry-“

“I would never leave you in there.” Lucifer soothed. “It was just a little bit. Have you learned your lesson? Are you going to be good for me, Sam?”

“Yes.” Sam choked out. “Yes, I will, please. Please.”

“I’ll make it all better.” Lucifer said, before taking full control of the body and stretching. He looked to the demon standing guard in the corner of the room and whistled like he was calling a dog. “You. Anderson. C’mere.”

“Of course, my lord. It’s an honor.” He walked forwards, bowed, and presented Lucifer a knife from his belt. His hand was shaking lightly, but he quickly quelled it.

Lucifer smirked and took it. “Thank you, Anderson. Your sacrifice is appreciated.” He carded a soft hand through the demon’s hair and yanking him forwards to drive his throat into the blade of the knife.

When he drank Sam relaxed. Letting himself surrender to the euphoria of power that was his own, not just borrowed from Lucifer. He felt Sam forget. Felt the blackened soul finally slump against his grace, trying to embrace it. Surges of loyalty, of the same twisted love Lucifer had for Sam reflected back on him. This was the Sam he needed. And to him, it was perfect.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For the first time in a millennia, Alastair prays
> 
> Chapter specific tags: torture

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, sorry for the shorter chapter. But I hope y’all like it. Comments are appreciated :)

“I suppose it’s been a rather long time since I’ve prayed to you, or anyone for that matter. ...And I doubt you want to hear from me at all. Or anyone, really, seeing as you’ve left.” He started slowly, unsure and out of practice. “It has been so long. I’ve forgotten your face.” A heavy sigh. “And I know you don’t intervene. And you haven’t, not for a very long time. But this wasn’t supposed to happen. You know that. You must see that.”

“I’m not asking for your help. Not me. I know I’m beyond deserving it. But they aren’t. I doubt Dean was meant to be down here more than fifty years and yet, nearly a thousand later, he persists. Hell is no place for a soul like his. He hasn’t turned yet. I don’t think anything but your sister’s mark could do that to him.” Alastair scrubbed his hand over his face. “Doing this makes me feel so human. I hate it.” He decided. “Worthless exercise anyways. You stopped caring the second she betrayed me for Lucifer, and then I was just along for the ride. I didn’t know, it wasn’t fair. It was never fair. I was implicated in it, and you allowed your son to take and corrupt the only real love I had, and you know that wasn’t Lilith or Eve or any of them-“ Alastair’s breath caught in his throat and he kicked the wall. “It was never fair to me. But...let it be fair to them. Please.” He blinked and found his eyes were wet with tears and it was hard to swallow past the lump in his throat.

He picked up a book. “You’ve probably kicked off to another world. Do you hear us, anymore? Or were they right about you being a watchmaker? Set us ticking and leave us alone?” He mused, slowly regaining his composure. “It doesn’t make sense, remembering you. So involved. But that was when we followed your design. Is this all a failed project? Crumpled paper on your studio floor?” White eyes raised to the ceiling. Alastair sighed and shook his head, turning a few pages before replacing the book on his shelf. 

Sometimes, He did listen. He listened especially hard when something unexpected happened. And there could be nothing more unexpected than the first man praying to him. And Adam- or whatever he liked to be called now, he was so perceptive. More than the rest of his creations, at any rate. Chuck did watch what was going on in hell. He couldn’t exactly say he wa pleased with it, but going down there would ruin any chance Lucifer had at redemption. He still cling to the fact, the hope his son might see the error of his ways. It was foolish, and human of him to do so. And yet, he did. Because even god wasn’t perfect. And anyone who knew that never had a full life after it, because if God wasn’t perfect how could they be? Chuck sighed and scrubbed his hands over his face. “Oh, Adam.” He murmured, looking down at his keyboard. “You’re right. But I don’t think I have the heart to throw this one back to the drawing board yet.” He decided, took a sip of scotch, and went back to typing.

Dean handled the razor expertly. Flaying skin from muscle, separating muscle from bone. Right now he was steadily working his way down to a man’s groin. “Come on, Donnie, quit screaming. You didn’t let those little boys scream, I won’t afford you anything they didn’t get.” Dean growled, clamping a blood slicked hand over the man’s mouth. “Shuddup and enjoy it.” He grinned. This was the kind of soul he loved having on the rack. One where he could twist their words back at them, give them what they gave out on earth.

The man screamed out against Dean’s hand, struggling weakly against the leather cuffs holding him steady against the table.

“Tch. When I’m done here I’m gonna cut out your tongue.” Dean decided, giving one final swipe of the razor before he wiped it on the leg of his jeans. “Open wide…”

He went on for hours. Would have gone on for days, if he’d been allowed. Because this was him, this was what he lived for. Pleas of submission, for mercy, that he would never grant. The shattering of bones, the tearing of skin and muscle and the tarnishing of tired souls.

He hummed to himself as he worked. Sprinting into spontaneous verse if it got more exciting. “Have you seen her all in gold, like a queen in days of old,” And back to humming. A ridiculously cheery song to sing when you were flashing the outer layer of skin away from a man’s penis, but it did well to drown out the garbled screams in his mind.


	11. Chapter Eleven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A look back onto Alastair’s life as a human.
> 
> Chapter specific tags: mention of suicide

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Isn’t it sad that the longest chapter so far isn’t even connected to the story? Anywho, I hope you like it. I sure liked writing it! I’m a bible nerd because I’m a good Catholic child who went to VBS, so this take on genesis was pretty fun to work out.
> 
> As always, any thoughts or criticism is welcome, and I look forward to hearing from you all.

Eden was nothing to snooze on in its prime. It was paradise, after all. It was beyond beautiful, beyond what humans now can comprehend. Perfect nature living in perfect harmony. It was awesome in the true sense of the word, bringing tears to the eyes of those who first see it because it is just that amazing.

Lush, soft grass and wildflowers with petals like silk, trees with twists and knots and branches perfect for giving shade. Babbling streams as clear as glass where it looks like the fish are simply floating above the stones and silt at the bottom.

But the people who lived there were a little different than what one might expect. For one, there were only ever two. No first wife for Adam, there was always just Eve. Lilith is simply what became of her, just as Alastair is what became of Adam.

Secondly, they were equals. Just because Eve was begot of Adam’s flesh did not make her lesser, it made her the same. As generations went on the message got a little muddled, though.

They lived under the sun and slept under the stars, but they were not alone. Eden was the gate between heaven and earth, and it not only had guards, but visitors as well. From God Himself to the lowliest Cupid, all partook in the beauty and simple joy of the garden.

Some mornings Gabriel and a select few of the younger angels came down to watch the birds, and the sunrise. Adam sat with them sometimes, often speaking softly to Gabriel about some going on or another. Once about a small family of rabbits who had made their home among the roots of the forbidden tree.

Adam had marveled about how something forbidden and wrong could also bring and support life.

Gabriel had simply looked over at the tree with saddened eyes, shaking his head. He had the gift of foresight, and he despised it sometimes. He could see the future clearer than any other angel, sometimes better than his father. It was a burden only eased by the help of pagan magic in later years. “I’d leave them be all the same.” He decided. His true voice was musical, like a whole fleet of instruments and bells chorusing. “That tree can’t be good for you or Eve.”

In the beginning Man could hear and see angels without needing the barrier of a vessel to shield their eyes.

“I suppose not. But it’s just the fruit that is forbidden, not the support of its trunk or the shade of its leaves. I have no desire to see as your father sees.”

“No. You don’t.” Gabriel had sighed and stood, wings beating out in triplets as he brushed off his robes. “See you tomorrow?”

“Of course.”

At the same time, or at night, Eve would speak to Lucifer. She was closer to him than any other angel. Of course, at that point his name wasn’t Lucifer. He hadn’t fallen.

“Samael,” She would say, looking up into the night sky. “Tell me a story about before all of this.”

Lucifer would hum, pursing his lips. After his father, he was the best story teller. “Do you see that star?” He asked, pointing up at the sky at a dim, blue star. This was long before the mark had a strong hold on him. Long before he began to truly resent the two humans he shared Heaven with.

Eve nodded. “The small one?” She asked, nestling into the wing wrapped around her side and raising her head a little.

“That’s the one. Raphael made it. It was the first time father allowed us to help.” He hummed. “To make the stars. Never a planet, not an animal, but he gave us free reign with the sky.” He smiled softly. “And Raphael was absolutely terrible at it.” He chuckled. “All the fading stars, the ones you can see on the edges of constellations and galaxies, those are theirs.” He hummed. “That’s why they were allowed to switch over to plants and herbs that day. I’d say they did a much better job of that.” He plucked an iris from the ground. “Especially these.” He tucked it behind Eve’s ear with one hand, smoothing out her hair with another.

“When you see the sun rise in the morning, you can think of me. I liked to make the brightest stars.” Lucifer hummed. “And that’s why I’m saddled with heralding the dawn.” He chuckled.

And after an hour or so of silence he would stand, pearlescent wings shining in the dark, and fly off.

Of course, we’re all familiar with the story that happens years later. Serpent tempts Eve, Eve takes apple, Eve goes halvsies with Adam and the pair gets the boot. But nothing is ever that simple.

The simplest thing to say ‘no’ to is that it was an apple. The would be closest to our figs, but not quite the same flavor. A little sweeter, actually.

The second is that Eve wouldn’t have done it without any help. The tempting didn’t happen all at once, no good tempting ever does.

In fact, the best tempters do it in short bursts over a long period of time. Planting and sewing seeds of doubt and want. Lucifer wasn’t even in the garden when Eve plucked the fig from a low hanging bow.

And lastly, the most egregious misconception of all, Adam didn’t know what he was given. He wasn’t there when Eve picked the fruit. He was sat by the stream, watching as a tadpole like creature fought its way against the slight current.

Eve had joined him, lips and cheeks sticky with juice as she pressed half of the fruit into his hand. No words were spoken between them, and Adam didn’t even look down at it. He trusted her that much. He lifted it to his lips and took a bite, and then he  _ saw _ .

And that was precisely when Lucifer made his appearance. “Do you see, now?” He asked, crouching down behind the pair.

Adam stared up at Eve and then at the remains of the fruit clutched in one hand. “What have you done?”

“I did what I had to do. Can’t you see we’re destined for more, Adam? We don’t belong here. We need to grow, to evolve.” Eve pleaded, and when Lucifer smoothed a hand across her cheek she leaned into it.

He dropped the fruit in the stream and it met a wet plop before it sank to the bottom. He staggered back, before he half ran, half walked away.

Lucifer smirked and his eyes flashed red. Not the gold they usually were, the gold they had been before that day, but red. As the mark finally held full sway over him. “He’ll come around.” He promised Eve.

And once again Lucifer disappeared. 

Adam had crouched down behind a bush and clutched at the sides of his head. He heard wing bests and cowered back, for he knew what had happened was wrong. “I’m sorry-“ He said, for the first time in what would be a very long life.

“Don’t be. Wasn’t your fault. It’s me, kiddo.”

Adam screwed his eyes tightly shut and shook his head. “Surely He will see it was an accident. I didn’t-“

“No.” Gabriel said around the lump in his throat. “You didn’t. And she didn’t either, not really. But He won’t care. He turned a blind eye to what Samael has done before. He’ll do it again. ...I’m sorry.”

“Why? Why did-“

“Because Samael doesn’t like you, Adam. He doesn’t like you, and he doesn’t like your wife. Because you’re different.” Gabriel sat down and crossed his legs. “Because you didn’t have to see the difference. And Samael was jealous, and bitter, and angry. And it’s not your fault at all. But now that you do see?” Gabriel poked the center of Adam’s chest. “It doesn’t even matter. Because life isn’t fair, and good and evil don’t really matter. Because they’re subjective. It’s all horseshit.” Gabriel laughed bitterly. “Take what punishment He gives you.” He stood back up and looked down at Adam. “I’ll see you around. I don’t plan on sticking around here for much longer anyways.”

The one thing we did get right is that Adam and Eve were cast out to wander the earth. There was no punishment for Lucifer, though. The serpent got off scot free. Funny thing is he still does. The worst people are never punished as well as they can be, even today. And those that are undeserving suffer the worst. History is a wheel, and Adam and Eve are written into every spoke.

And when they settled down, they didn’t see Lucifer for years after. He usually came only to Eve, and she kept it a secret for the most part. While Adam hunted, provided, she worshipped Lucifer. She took him as her god. And it fed his ego, it made him have some sort of care for her, a similar love to that he has for Sam now. A twisted one, where she would stoop to kiss his feet and the only answer she got was ‘More’.

What Adam loved most in the world, though, were his children. He still loved God. And he thanked Him every day for continuing to bestow His gifts. For driving the rain to their crops, for driving the herd to his spear. For his two beautiful children.

Eve cursed God for the burden, and she cursed God for the pain of bearing it. When Lucifer heard her prayers and guided Cain to murder, he was cursed by Adam.

And that was when he fell. When the first soul passed on to Heaven, Lucifer was cast down to Hell.

And Eve with him. She killed herself from grief. Adam always believed it was over Abel. Over the fact that Seth would never be the same as he was. He never knew, even as a demon, it was over the loss of her love.

And Lucifer twisted her soul from inside the cage, tearing and ripping and pouring every ounce of hatred for humanity and for his father he had into the action. And he made an abomination.

She loved it. With every blow she begged for more, between sobs and screams she thanked him. When she was Lilith she bowed to him and declared him God and King.

When Adam died there was no such love. He begged for God to deliver him. He begged and begged until he couldn’t anymore, when he was so warped and twisted he craved the snap of the whip and the pain of a knife. He didn’t love Lucifer. He loved the absolution through pain, and grew to tolerate Lucifer. When more souls passed into Hell he gave what he had been given before. Passing on the pain wrought into every inch of his being.

And thus Alastair and Lilith were born, and Lucifer saw it was good.


	12. Chapter Twelve

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean goes to the hall of records, and Alastair speaks to Crowley.
> 
> Chapter specific tags: espionage, we finally got a plot thread boys!, Crowley hates Twilight as much as Balthazar hates The Titanic

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally back up to a good length for chapters! Id like to thank InHisImage for the inspiration for this chapter, and I’d like to thank the rest of you for supporting me so far ^-^
> 
> It’s been great, and reading comments in every chapter is so incredibly fulfilling to me

Dean strode into Hell’s hall of records. Much like Joshua’s garden in heaven, it was subjective. For him it was the Lawrence public library, with high glass walls that opened up into the redness of Hell’s sky, striped grey carpets, and wide open reading spaces. The best thing of all was that it had air conditioning. “Heya, Crowley. Need a book.” He said, leaning against the front desk.

Crowley looked up from where he was writing a contract, quill in one hand and parchment held under the other. “This isn’t a sodding library, Dean.” He paused to look around before he sighed. He walked right into that one. 

“Do you or do you not have every published book in here?”

“Except for the twilight series.” Crowley confirmed. “Along with records of every deal, demon, soul, and incidence in court.” All computerized, as well, at least in this form. The hall of records was the only place Crowley could safely modernize.

“Got anything ‘bout The Dark Crystal?”

“The what?”

“The movie-“

“I know what it is.” Crowley butted in. “Why?”

“Why not. Bored. Wanna read.” Dean shrugged, looking over Crowley’s shoulders at the shelves as if one book might be hiding back there.

Crowley thought for a second. “Alastair caved and bought the television, didn’t he?”

“Yep.” Dean said, popping the p. “Look, you got it or no?”

Crowley glanced at the computer screen next of him. “I’ve got the graphic novels and the art and lore books.”

“Great. I’ll take ‘em all.”

“All fifty one?”

“I’ll take five.” Dean decided.

Crowley hummed, summoning a stack to hand. “Of course. And these are...for you? Not quite your style.”

Dean paused. “They’re for Alastair.” He admitted.

“And he sent you so he wouldn’t be seen walking around hell with them.” Crowley surmised, slipping a small sheet of paper in between the pages of one while Dean wasn’t looking.

Dean chuckled and nodded. “Yeah. Yeah, he did.” He paused. “You said there’s records of every demon, and soul in here?”

“Of course. Hell is very fastidious about record keeping,” Crowley hummed, eyes flashing red as he tried to parse out what Dean was getting at. He smirked when he realized. “You want Alastair’s, don’t you?”

Dean nodded. He was almost afraid if he said it out loud Alastair would know.

And then, under the stack of comparatively slim books and novels, an absolute behemoth of a book appeared.

Dean stared. “Holy crap.”

“He  _ is _ old, Dean. You’re lucky the part you want to read is in the beginning.” Crowley chuckled softly.

Dean struggled to lift the stack and get a good hold on it, nodding. “Yeah. Right. Er, thanks.” He gave a curt nod before walking out.

The room reverted into a modern looking office type space somehow mixed with hell’s general gothic stonework and red and black theme and Crowkey sighed, shoulders slumping.

Dean decided he’d read in the bedroom, where he could easily slip Alastair’s large book under the bed at a moment’s notice and replace it with the dog-eared copy of  _ Slaughterhouse Five _ next to him. Alastair’s books were left on his pillow.

Dean opened the book and coughed as he was assaulted with a plume of dust, wrinkling his nose. This thing sure hadn’t been read in a while.

He read, brow creasing the further in he got. “Holy shit.” He breathed running his finger down the page as he read. He hadn’t realized. And he couldn’t believe it, because knowing now it was so painfully obvious. When the latch on the door clicked he dog-eared the book (Crowley would probably kill him) and shoved it under the bed, opening up Vonnegut on his lap. He hummed to himself, easily picking up on exactly where he was in the story.

Alastair stride in and cocked his head to the side owlishly. “An odd place to read.” He hummed.

“I took a nap first and didn’t want to go back out to the living room.” Dean excused easily, turning a page. “How was your day?”

“Mm, not too bad. Ended up sending a soul for review.”

Dean’s brows raised. “You’re kidding. That never happens.” He said, closing his book and setting it aside.

“Ah, almost never.” Alastair chuckled. To send a soul for review was an odd thing. It meant that, when looking over records or listening to the soul’s own testimony, the torturer came for a conclusion that they didn’t belong in hell. There were celestial clerical errors, too.

“What was this one?” Dean asked, sitting on the edge of the bed like an overeager child ready for their bed-time story.

“A little girl. Guess what her sin was.” Alastair said, sitting on the bed next to Dean, who only shrugged. “Murder.” Alastair informed. “The mother died in childbirth. She was born blind.” He added. “Want to know how she died?” Again, Dean shrugged.

“Her father parked his car on the railroad tracks and left her inside.” Alastair said, and Dean could hear the anger creeping into his tone. Of all things, Alastair had a soft spot for children.

With Dean knowing what he did now, he could finally see why. “Jesus Christ.” He breathed. “Can’t wait til the fucker ends up down here.”

“Neither can I. Already put a marker in on his soul.” Alastair hummed, before his gaze flickered over to the pillow. “I didn’t think you’d actually get those for me.” He said, giving a soft smile.

“Eh, I had time off. Have at it.” Dean said and laid back, drawing his lower lip between his teeth as he tried to find where he’d left off.

Alastair shifted the books onto his side table and drew up the first from the stack as he rested back next to Dean. With a thought, the music pouring from the gramophone in the other room grew louder. It was ‘Being for the Benefit of Mr. Kite’. It had been five songs since anything by Sinatra had played (Dean was keeping track). Five was a new record.

Alastair opened his book and paused when he spied a small piece of paper taped to the first page. He unfolded it and glanced at Dean, who was once again engrossed in his reading.

‘Alastair. Meet me in the back room of the hall of records after your working day tomorrow to discuss matters of utmost importance regarding the king. 

-A. Crowley’

Alastair stared down at the paper before tucking it into his breast pocket and getting into reading.

The next day Dean arrived at home after working hours and started in on Alastair’s book again, while Alastair went to the proposed meeting place.

Inside the small meeting room sat Crowley, and another demon he hadn’t seen in a very long time.

“Asmodeus?” He greeted, brow creasing. “What on earth are you doing here, mm? I thought you and the others wanted to be left out of hell.”

Asmodeus leaned back in his chair and took a sip of a glass of bourbon held in his right hand. It seemed every movement earned a disparaging glance from Crowley at his suit. “Mm. We did.” He set the glass down, ice clinking against itself. “Y’see, Mr. Crowley saw fit to contact me ‘cause of the state of affairs down here. Even though he’s  _ technically _ next in line.”

Alastair’s gaze swiveled to Crowley. “And how did this come to pass?”

“Dealings with Ramiel. It’s not important right now.” Crowley shook his head, giving Asmodeus’ suit one last glare before clearing his throat. “I wish to...form a coup.”

Alastair stared. “What?”

“To usurp, to take power-“

“I know what a damn coup d’etat is, Crowley, I want to know how and why. And why I shouldn’t raise this concern to Lucifer.”

“Cause you’re probably just as unhappy with him as we are, Al.” Asmodeus chuckled. “Old man’s runnin’ the place into the ground, wouldn’t you say? Too much attention spent on that lil boy toy of his.”

“He’s a spoiled brat playing with a bucket of plastic soldiers. We all know Michael was the strategist of the family, look at how smoothly heaven is running. Now look here. No innovation, same stagnant practices and policies and punishment.”

“Punishment works just fine.” Alastair defended, acting as if slighted.

“Of course. Yours and Dean’s and all the others you’ve personally trained. But the rest? All that ripping and tearing with no finesse? It goes nowhere. The demons they create are just cannon fodder.” Crowley hummed. “Sit, please.”

“We ain’t made any plans yet, you won’t be implicated in nothin.” Asmodeus entreated, quirking a brow.

“Save for what we’ll do with torture if this works out how we want it.” Crowley said with an air of pride.

Alastair hesitated for a second and pulled out a chair, before sitting. “And why do you want me, then? And what exactly do you plan for that? Because, mm, you’re not exactly of the same caliber I am when it comes to that sort of thing.”

“You’re powerful, Al. More powerful than either of us two.” Crowley leaned back. “You know old enochian spells and curses, you know how the Cage works. And as for my plan?” He grinned. “A line. An eternity waiting, and when you finally reach the end it all starts over again. No finish line. No talking. Just waiting. When they finally break, try to move out, try to fight back, they already have all the pent up rage they need to turn nice and easy. The harder cases would go to specialists such as yourself.”

Alastair chuckled softly, about to shake his head before he thought about it. “It’s different.” He decided. “But...well, I believe different might just be what Hell needs.”

So the three talked and planned and shot the shit through the night, Alastair only returning home in the wee hours of the ‘morning’. And he was happier than he’d been in a long while.


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alastair has a torture session, and there’s another meeting of the Secret Demon Club.
> 
> Chapter specific tags: cannibalism (mm, pork roast)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mm. Writing the first bit made me hungry. Is that bad? Lol
> 
> Thank y’all for your support, and I hope you like this chapter as much as I liked writing it. Comments and criticism is much appreciated!

When Alastair returned to business as usual that day, he did so with a smile. It was of course, fun and exciting work for him, but he also had the opportunity to think and ponder. In between rounds with the soul he was working on he read up on enochian and studies he had done on the cage. Ways to pry it open again. What he paid most attention to, though, was angel summonings.

He and his other co-conspirators had agreed to meet daily when they could, same time as the first meeting.

He felt as giddy as a schoolboy thinking about it. That for the first time in a long time he might be doing something right. He knew Asmodeus and Crowley didn’t have that motivation. Crowley wanted power and Asmodeus sought revenge. And Alastair did so want revenge- but at the same time part of him was still desperate to prove himself to an absent God.

So he whistled while he worked. Today he was giving a lesson in cooking, though it wasn’t quite the content you’d find on the food network. His victim had been a chef in life, and in his off hours he drugged girls and brought them home to rape.

Alastair was such a fan of karmic justice, and while he wouldn’t rape (again, pedophiles were the exception to that rule) he would certainly cook.

“You know, there’s a reason they call humans long pig.” He said, making a cut along the lumbar vertebrae. The man groaned and let out a sharp yell of pain before he fell into a coughing fit. “Has a similar taste. Some minute differences, but I can safely say they’re the same.” He excised a long, beautifully marbled piece of meat. “This is your psoas major. Can you tell me what cut this is, James?” He hummed.

James whimpered, lower lip quivering. “Let me go, please, I’m sorry-“

“No, no, that’s not what I want to hear. Let’s try again.” Alastair picked up the cattle prod like device on his tray and drove it into James’ neck. He squealed and arched up off the table. 

“T-t-t- hnnngh-“ He groaned and coughed, retching as he shook his head.

“Tenderloin, that’s it. Very good.” Alastair praised. “Mm, and what sort of trappings should I put on it? Rosemary, do you think?”

James only wailed and struggled against his bonds. 

“You’re being a very impolite guest, you know. The only reason I haven’t taken your tongue yet is because you need it to answer questions.” Alastair summoned a sprig of fresh rosemary to hand and crushed it between his fingers, rubbing it into the meat. The scent of it nearly covered the coppery aroma of blood and the scent of bile from where James had vomited onto the floor. 

“And then of course, garlic, oregano, thyme, nothing too special. You want a cut of meat like this to speak for itself. But you already know that.” When Alastair was finished with that part he crossed the room to wash his hands. He smirked when he saw James’ mouth watering already.

Funny thing about hell was that if you were good at it, you could manipulate a human’s physiology to a ‘t’. Hunger, sleep, thirst, it was all under Alastair’s control. And James was beyond starving. Alastair wondered if he would have the willpower to refuse the food that would be presented to him.

James whimpered, fingers like claws scrabbling at the leather cuffs around his wrists. “Please, please-“

“Please what, mm? We can use our words, can’t we?” Alastair asked from where he stood behind a counter, trimming asparagus and peeling apples. 

“Just make it stop, I’m gonna die, I’m so hungry-“

“You already have died.” Alastair pointed out. “And, mm, if you keep complaining like that you won’t eat at all.” And when he said that, James _wailed_.

Duly finished with his prep, Alastair crossed over to the hearth and gave the bellows feeding it a few pumps before sliding a tray with the cut _psoas major_ inside. 

Below that a tray with the lightly oiled and salted asparagus and apples. As Alastair had said, human and pork were sometimes indistinguishable. And nothing went better with pork than apples.

Alastair sat down and read as he waited. He didn’t need to torture James while he cooked, the smell was enough. Sweet roasted garlic, browning meat glistening with its own fat, herbs releasing their own oils to add with the mix.

Delectably browned apples and asparagus you just knew was perfectly tender and crisp all at once, salt and heat and fat and a perfect heaven in hell.

James whimpered, struggling more valiantly as time ticked by.

Alastair turned a page in his book on summonings and let out a contented sigh. He’d all but tuned out James’ begs and pleading in favor of humming softly to himself, tapping his foot to the tune playing inside his head.

After forty five minutes of agony for James, Alastair stood with a soft groan, smoothing dry but still red-stained hands over his dress shirt. 

“That smells just about done, doesn’t it?” Alastair stopped down and wrapped a bare hand around the metal tray to pull it out. “Oh, that looks amazing.” He praised. “I don’t think I’ve done better.” He set it on his tool cart, humming. 

James practically lurched against his bindings towards it, panting heavily. “Please- _please please please_ -“

“Calm down, we’re nearly there.” Alastair picked up a blade that wasn’t exactly made for carving cooked meat, but if it worked on living flesh it would work even better on cooked. It passed through the cut of meat like a hot knife through butter.

“Oh, that’s beautiful, isn’t it?” He praised. Perfectly cooked brown meat with only a slight pink hue. He sat back and spooned a serving of asparagus onto the plate as well. 

Rather than letting James up, though, Alastair sat down on the bench and cut a small piece off of the slice. He took a bite and chewed slowly. It practically melted on his tongue, cooked perfectly. The outside crisp and the inside juicy, the herbs seeping their flavor deep onto the flesh.

James whimpered. “Please, please, Alastair-“

“Mm, let me finish.” Alastair said, waving his fork at James. “Be a good boy and wait your turn.”

He ate slowly, methodically, savoring each perfect bite. “Well, that was amazing.” He said, standing and setting down his cleaned plate and making a show of walking to the door.

“Wait! Please, you promised! I’m so hungry, I’m so- please, Alastair-“

“Oh, I suppose I did promise.” Alastair sighed, putting his hands on his hips. “Are you sure? Autocannibalism? My, if you were unredeemable before this is pushing the envelope.”

And tears were streaming down James’ face. “I don’t care, please.” He begged.

“If you’re so sure.” Alastair cut a slice from the meat and fed it to James. The man ate ravenously, choking it down with no care for flavor or sustenance.

“Greedy, greedy.” Alastair admonished, and with a thought the food caught in James’ throat. He choked, face turning blue as Alastair left and the light disappeared from the room.

Dean started taking notes when he read. When he got new insight into Alastair. He had filled up a journal before he was an eighth of the way through the tome. He hummed along to ‘Scarborough Fair’ from where he lay in bed, twirling his pen between his fingers as he read. It was depressing, and he did have to take breaks to supplement himself with something much less heavy.

So he’d gotten the Tiffany Aching series from Crowley, who had congratulated him for finally getting into Pratchett. Dean had told him to fuck off and just let him take his books.

Despite having a television now, it rarely got used. He and Alastair had a movie night every other ‘Saturday’ and aside from that it sat in the living room collecting dust. They really had gotten domestic.

When Alastair arrived in the back room of the hall of records, Asmodeus was drinking his way through a decanter of brandy and Crowley was writing something.

Alastair hummed. “I always thought greed was Beelzebaub’s sin.” He chided lightly before taking a glass and pouring some of the liquor out for himself.

“Mnh. We share.” Asmodeus chuckled lightly and leaned back, propping his feet up on the table. Crowley swiftly shoved them back to the floor.

In return, Asmodues’ eyes flashed yellow and he snarled, raising a hand as if to strike the younger demon.

“Mm, put the rulers away.” Alastair hummed. “We both know Crowley wins that battle.” He added with a wry smile. “We have business to attend to.”

Crowley barked out a laugh while Asmodeus glowered, crossing his arms over his chest.

“Well, Alastair? Have you brought it?” Asmodeus arched a brow, watching as Alastair produced an enochian spellbook. 

“Of course I have. But I need to know who we plan to contact.” 

“Anyone. Preferably a messenger or a soldier.” Crowley raised his brows, reaching out to smooth two fingers over the leather cover.

“So then just a basic summoning.” Alastair decided and watched as Asmodeus pulled the tome over to himself and flipped it open. 

“S’an old dialect you got here, sure it’ll still work?”

“Perfectly sure. Enochian doesn’t just stop being a language. And how would you know it’s old, you haven’t been an angel in millennia. Even then you were a cherub.”

Asmodeus huffed. “That don’t mean anything.”

“Of course not, simply that the weakest class of angel translate perfectly to the weakest-“

“Crowley.” Alastair said warningly. “We’re not here to quarrel, are we? That goes against why _you_ called us all here. So let’s just calm down. Try to be less demonic, if possible.”

“Less demonic.” Asmodeus scoffed, shaking his head. “Alright, get on with it then.” He passed the book back to Alastair.

“What? Oh, no, mm, I won’t summon anything down here. Lucifer would feel it. You need to.”

“Me?” Crowley raised his brows. “Why?”

“Your mother was a witch. And you have a valid reason to go topside. If I do, for one, Lucifer gets suspicious, and for two, I hate going up there.” Alastair shrugged. “And As,odeus would butcher the pronunciation and you know it.”

Asmodeus had no complaint with that, because he knew it as well.

Crowley sighed. “Alright. Mark the page, tape down a translation for the ingredients.” He hummed and passed over a sheet of lined paper and a fountain pen.

Alastair chuckled softly. “What for?”

“I can read enochian but I'm rubbish at translating.” Crowley explained. “Just write them down, please?”

“Please? Mm, so polite.” Alastair chuckled softly and took up the one, flipping the tome open to the page he needed and transcribing the spell and process, but not the summoning incantation itself.

Crowley rolled his eyes and took it, using the freshly written translation as a bookmark. “I’ll do it tomorrow morning. See you two next meeting. Ciao.” He disappeared, soon followed by Asmodeus before Alastair walked out, back to his quarters with Dean.


	14. Chapter Fourteen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley carries out the Secret Demon Club’s (not the official name, just how I think of it) plan and all seems to be going well, but the entire operation balances on a razor’s edge.
> 
> Chapter specific tags: Heaven’s upper echelon are asses (Michael and Zachariah)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Man, this is becoming less of a Sam and Dean story by the second. Sorry for that. We’ll be back to them soon, I promise!
> 
> Again, thank you for your feedback and comments. I love seeing it on every chapter.

Crowley situated himself in a field. The grass was brown and the trees were bent and twisted, leaves yellow and crabapples on the ground behind sour, as if they were so angry at being there and being what they were that the designed to punish any vile animal who so much at sniffed at them.

On the ground he made a circle of holy oil in a dusty clearing, as one could never be too careful, and set up a summoning circle inside of it. Herbs were placed on the key points, and he summoned a tongue of fire to one finger to light the oil at a moment’s notice.

When he spoke in enochian it was measured and even, pronunciation practically perfect.

“ _ Messenger of the lord, come to me. I seek guidance and deliverance, I seek your light. I summon thee to this place to hear your wisdom and give my prayer. _ ”

Well, that was simple enough. Now all he had to do was wait. After a few seconds the red paint of the circle flowed and Crowley chose that moment to light the holy oil.

“What sort of bloody idiot uses that summoning, mm? What are you, a schola-“ The angel froze. For the life of him, Crowley couldn’t find anything angelic about the being in front of him.

From the sex-mussed blonde hair to the glass of scotch to the  _ v-neck _ (the worst sin of all to the tailor Crowley was), even the celestial outline of perfectly groomed wings Crowley could see, nothing spoke of grace or piety.

“A demon? A  _ demon  _ summoned me?”

“I don’t suppose I can exchange you for a different model, can I?” Crowley raised a brow, eyes flashing red. “I need a message delivered. What’s your name, angel?”

“Balthazar.” Balthazar scoffed indignantly, looking Crowley up and down. “And you must be Crowley.” He said, nodding slowly. Of all the demons heaven had on their watchlist, Crowley was the most well-favored. “Right then. Who do you want messaged? And why couldn’t you just pray like...well, like everything else with a soul?”

“Wanted to make sure it actually got through. And I would so very much like to speak to Michael.”

Balthazar laughed and drank the rest of his scotch. “Oh, good luck with that.” He grunted at the burn of the drink, shaking his head. “You’d have been better off summoning someone important. Like Naomi. Or, father forbid, Zachariah.” He wrinkled his nose.

“I take it from your tone they’re not much fun.” Crowley hummed. “No, I think he’d listen to you. I’m sure he’d just love an edge on his brother…”

Balthazar paused. “You’re committing treason?” He chuckled. “Must be a shittier situation down there than we thought. What’s big brother done this time?”

“Foreplay, Balthazar. I can’t just tell you everything now, can I? Simply tell Michael myself and two other interested parties would like to meet with him. No strings attached, no ambush, no weapons. Can you do that for me?”

Balthazar bit the inside of his cheek. “Douse the flames.”

“Of course, of course. Once we seal the deal.” Crowley smirked.

“Don’t tell me you want to-“

“I’m sure an angel of your...disposition wouldn’t mind much, would they? I’ve been told I can do wonderful things with my tongue.”

Balthazar tapped his foot, leather shoe thumping on the ground like a ratty snare drum. “Fine.” He breathed. “I’m not giving you anything other than the assurance I’ll speak to Michael. Understand?”

“Of course.” And Crowley grabbed Balthazar by the lapels of his blazer and pulled him to the edge of the ring of the fire before kissing him softly. The flames seemed to douse of their own accord and just as quickly as Balthazar had arrived, he was gone.

Crowley disappeared back to hell, tome tucked under one arm.

Balthazar strode down the white halls of heaven, only pausing to duck into a room. “Hallo, Cassie.”

“...You stink of sulfur. What have you done?”

Balthazar rolled his eyes. “Nothing awful, I promise. Have you seen Zachariah?”

“Nothing awful?” Ah, there he was. The rat bastard. “Last I checked dealing with demons puts you on the naughty list, Balthazar.”

“Ah. Hello there, Zach. Glad to see you still have the same amount of stick up your ass as you did when I left ten minutes ago. And I must inform you, it was for a good cause.”

“Oh?” Zachariah chuckled. “And what good cause would that be?”

“Espionage. A way into Hell. You know, that thing Michael wants?”

Zachariah stared. “You can’t be serious. You’re lying.”

“Do I look like a liar?” Balthazar paused. “Alright, don’t answer that one. But do you think I’d lie about that? To you? To Michael? In  _ heaven _ ? I might be a hedonist but I’m not an idiot. So. Can I see Michael?”

Zachariah paused, chewing his lip. “Under supervision.”

“No, on my own. I’m a big boy.” Balthazar hummed. “I don’t need you there so you can weasel your way into getting a commendation you don’t need, you slimy bastard.” He gestured vaguely at his superior with his empty glass.

“How dare-“

“I’ve no fucks left to give for you or this entire operation, Zachariah, and unless you want Michael to hear nothing of my dealings I suggest you either block it out entirely or learn to deal with it. Take me to the bloody archangel and be done with it.

“...Down the hall, the gilded door. It will open for you.”

“There we go.” And Balthazar strode proudly down the pure white hallway with its pure white accents (a nice way to say that heaven in its entirety was boring. At least, the parts designated for angel use).

He approached the gilded door and it swung open for him, just as promised. It revealed a stately looking office with wood paneling and an oriental rug, a decanter without a drop of liquor missing, a globe, and a mahogany desk behind which sat heaven’s supreme power.

Balthazar folded his dappled grey wings behind his back and bowed, the necessary gesture of submission when dealing with an archangel in this day and age. “Michael.”

“Balthazar. If you could refrain from treating Zachariah so...poorly, no matter what he has done to merit it, that would be nice. I assume he’s sent you to be punished? Sit.”

“Not this time.” Balthazar hummed as he took his seat. “May I?”

“Be my guest. And if not for discipline, why are you here?”

Balthazar poured himself a glass of whiskey. “I’ve had dealings with the demon Crowley.”

And as fire blazed in Michael’s eyes he quickly backpeddaled. “For the, er, good of heaven and all that, of course. He wishes to start some sort of coup d’etat in hell. Wants us as an ally.”

Michael calmed and leaned back, fingers drumming on the wood of his desk. “And why do we have any reason to trust the word of a demon?”

“Because Lucifer is a tyrannical ass and no demon would risk a secret meeting if they weren’t serious.” Balthazar said flatly.

“Don’t speak so poorly of my brother or it will end badly for you.” Michael warned.

“Of course.” Balthazar cleared his throat, genuine fear flashing across his face.

“And what else has he asked? I doubt it was just a vague plea for aid. Not from the keeper of contracts.”

“Ah- yes. Straight to the point, then.” Balthazar swallowed around the lump in his throat. “He and two others wish to meet with you. Outside of Heaven and Hell. No weapons, no ambush. I doubt we can trust his word on that, though.”

“No, he’s kissed you. Dishonest as the breed is, Crowley is the sort of demon to honor a deal he makes.”

Balthazar flushed with shame and embarassment and nodded. “Any...time and place I should report back to them?”

“Yes. Tomorrow, some time last noon. ...The redwood state park in America.” Michael decided after a few moments of thought. “Take Castiel with you, next time. Your grace lacks fortitude. You are too easily tempted.”

“Of course, Michael.”

“Now go.”

Some ways away, or by some scholar’s theories, right next door, Asmodeus, Alastair, and Crowley were speaking.

“So if all goes well we have an audience with Michael.” Crowley sighed, shaking his head. “If Lucifer-“

“We’ll all be dead. There’s no other way for it to end.” Alastair hummed softly.

“There in’t a way for him to know, though. He don’t watch hell as closely as he likes his subjects to think.”

Crowley nodded, before turning to Alastair. “What became of the note I left to you?”

“It’s still in the book.” Alastair admitted. “Dean couldn’t possibly see it. He knows to stay out of my things.”

Crowley’s blackened soul practically split into two, because he knew that was wrong. And he knew he’d fostered that curiosity. And yet, he couldn’t say anything because he’d not only jeopardize his relationship with Dean, he’d jeopardize this entire operation and Alastair’s involvement in it. “I’d burn it all the same. Because if Dean knows Sam can wring it from him.”

“Mm. I suppose you do have a point.” Alastair hummed. “Same time tomorrow?”

“Of course. S’your turn to bring a drink.” Asmodeus nodded and stood, holding out a hand.

Crowley shook it and disappeared, just before Alastair did the same. Their meeting place was left dark and abandoned, with no trace of the trio aside ink marks on the table and spilled drink on the floor.


	15. Chapter Fifteen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just a few snippets of goings-on in hell. It’s a shorter chapter because I’m going to do the meeting with Michael next.
> 
> Chapter specific tags: paranoia

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Man, Crowley is getting paranoid and he’s not even sure if he has a right to be yet. That’s pretty fun to write.
> 
> Once again, thank you for your continued support and comments. It makes me feel special when I see people reacting to my work.

Lucifer lounged back in his throne. He’d given up on wearing Sam and taken Nick out of storage. He was just so much more comfortable, more expressive, more his style sometimes. “Something’s going on.” He decided. “I can feel it.” He leaned back and closed his eyes for a few seconds. 

“You’re going to meet Dean tomorrow, Sammy, and I want you to make sure he’s on his best behavior. You need to find a chink in the armor. Because if anything is happening, it’s either through Alastair or Crowley.”

“Yes, Lucifer.” Sam bowed his head, and even with all his training and all of his being broken he couldn’t stop there being hesitation in his voice. Because even like this he didn’t want to hurt his brother.

Lucifer hadn’t been able to make him as perfect as he had been the first time he raped Dean and even there, he was nowhere close to the archangel’s desires for how he would need to end up.

Lucifer sighed heavily. “Oh, Sammy. You’ll enjoy it. I promise. Don’t even think about Dean when it happens. He’s just another soul down here. Remember you’re a prince, and he’s a soldier.” He reminded.

“Of course, my king.” 

Lucifer smiled, ego sufficiently fed for the day. “Come down here and kiss me, then.”

And Sam did. He straddled Lucifer’s lap and kissed him like a man starved, breathing out silent ‘I love you’s and gripping tightly at Lucifer’s sides because that was what he was supposed to do, and if he couldn’t be pure and perfect in his thoughts he could be in his actions.

Lucifer never said ‘I love you’ back but Sam knew he meant to. Sam had to cling to the desperate hope that Lucifer hadn’t forced a one sided attraction into him.

“And we’ll review enochian tonight.” Lucifer decided further. “You should know it if you’re going to be my consort.”

Sam dreaded learning things. He was such a good student, an avid reader as a human. At Lucifer’s side he could barely think for himself. He was scared of failing.

“I’ll be gentle. Mind the throne, I need to pay someone a visit.” Lucifer said as he stood, pressing a lingering kiss to Sam’s lips before he walked out.

As he walked down the hall demons shied out of his way. When Lucifer was on the move trouble was brewing, even the fresh ones knew enough to keep away.

When the doors to the hall of records blew open and the relatively modern setup shifted to rows of shelves and ancient mildewing tomes, Crowley nearly froze before he regained his composure in seconds.

This wasn’t good. Or it could just be a routine visit. But either way, he had to act like he was innocent, and that was hard for any demon to do.

“Lucifer.” He greeted softly. “What can I do for you?”

“Oh, I’m just browsing.” Lucifer said, and Crowley’s heart plunged into the depths of his stomach.

“I wouldn’t want for you to waste valuable time. I’m sure I can find whatever it is you’re looking for?”

“Nah. You stay right there behind that desk.” Lucifer decided, walking down an aisle of shelves with purpose.

There couldn’t be anything incriminating, could there be? Crowley was certain he always cleaned up, made sure his plans were locked away in his own quarters, that there was no trace of anything anywhere to be seen. He must have looked nervous.

“Relax. It’s not an audit unless you have something to hide.” Lucifer smirked. “You’re not hiding anything from me, are you puppy?”

“Why would I? It would be useless.” Crowley pointed out. “I’m a coward. I don’t want to face your wrath any more than anyone else.”

For the time being, that quelled Lucifer’s doubts. “You are a rotten coward. That’s why you do your work here, isn’t it? And I do think I’ll take you up on that offer. I need a book on basic enochian.”

“For what?”

“Teaching.” Lucifer said simply, running his fingers over a few volumes.

Crowley nodded and stood. “You’re in the wrong section for that. That’s all court records.” He informed. “Over this way is languages. Enochian doesn’t exactly lend itself to a beginner’s guide, but there are some texts on translations and grammar.” Crowley paused. “But why not summon them yourself?”

“And deprive myself of a visit to you?” Lucifer asked as he appeared behind a Crowley and took the books out of his arms. “Never. I’ll be back to return these within the week.”

“Of course, my lord.”

When Lucifer disappeared Crowley’s posture slumped, but his anxiety refused to seep from his bones. Fuck. This wasn’t good. This could die out before it properly began. It couldn’t. He wouldn’t allow it to.

So he walked back up to the desk and scrubbed his hands over his face before he took out his fountain pen and began to write.

“Where are my books, Dean?”

“Spellbook’s in the kitchen, nerd-books are on the coffee table.” Dean hummed, turning a page in his own book.

“Thank you.” Dean heard the soft tear-slip of scotch tape freeing itself from paper, and then a small puff of fire. He furrowed his brow, but didn’t think all that much about it.

“Hey, Al?” Dean asked softly. 

“Mm, yes, Dean?” Alastair walked back into the room, head cocked to the side.

“You wanna do somethin’ fun tonight?”

“Sexy fun or board game fun?” Alastair chuckled and sat down on the bed next to Dean.

Dean shook his head. “Maybe both. But can we use the rack?”

Alastair paused. “Of course. I’ve been neglecting you, haven’t I? Poor thing. I do have business to attend to in the afternoon and it may last a long while, so be aware of that.”

“Ooh, what’s up?” Dean asked, rubbing his hands together.

Alastair sighed. “I’m afraid I can’t share this time,” He shook his head, leaning back. “But I will tell you something tomorrow. Something you should have been made aware of s long time ago.” He glanced at the clock on the wall. “I really must be off, Dean.” He leaned in to steal a soft kiss from the human before he pulled back, eyes wide and sad and betraying the true weight of the age behind them.


	16. Chapter Sixteen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A meeting with Michael and the promised session between Dean and Alastair.
> 
> Chapter specific tags: gore-y-er torture than usual after the meeting with Michael

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The gridiron is one of my favorite medieval torture methods. My favorite saint (and the one I chose my confirmation name from) Lawrence was martyred on the gridiron. He has a genuinely interesting story, you should look him up.
> 
> Aside from that, I ended up spending so much more time on the torture than the meeting with Michael, which I promise was not the plan. But it was so fun!
> 
> Thank you for your continued support, and I hope you enjoy

Michael rarely came down to earth. He had duties in heaven that, even with an absent father, he was sworn to uphold. But this was important. He knew this was something special. He wore the vessel of the third Winchester brother. One who had never been exposed to hunting and had said yes wholeheartedly.

He waited, leaning against a large, old redwood tree. The heady scent of pine and forest decay filled the air, and there wasn’t a human in sight. Absolutely perfect.

When Asmodeus appeared first he took a defensive stance, eyes narrowed. He didn’t like seeing the Fallen. The distinct angel-but-not quality of their tarnished grace was unnerving, almost painful to look at directly.

“Aw, don’t worry big brother. We ain’t here to hurt you, are we?” He hummed, eyes flashing yellow as Crowley appeared next to him.

“Where is your third?” Michael asked simply, taking a proud stance and arching his wings back behind him proudly, dominantly.

“He’ll be here. He’s more busy than either of us.” Crowley hummed, tapping his foot and deigning to lean back against a tree.

After a minute of uncomfortable silence between the three, Alastair appeared in the small clearing. “Michael. It’s been quite some time.” He greeted, humming.

Michael stared, completely caught off guard. “I- ah. Adam, yes, h-“

“Alastair.” Grey eyes flashed white. “If you wouldn’t mind. Mm, now isn’t the time to reminisce, is it?”

“Of course not. What has my brother done to merit...such action from those highest in his organization?”

“Hell’s gone stagnant. Surely you must know that, you keep eyes on the place.” Crowley hummed. “Lucifer is a poor ruler, a temperamental child.”

Asmodeus thumbed at the scars across his cheek. “And without proper backing, any plan the three of us make goes up in smoke.”

“And why should I aid you against my own brother? Hell’s troubles are far from Heaven’s problem.”

“Until they are, and Lucifer sets his sights higher.” Alastair picked lazily at the bark on an ancient tree. “You know he will. So why not take...mm, preventative measures? Quell the war before it starts.”

Michael narrowed his eyes. “Don’t try to smooth talk me into something, Alastair. What do you plan to do with Lucifer?”

“I hear the cage is lovely this time’a year.” Asmodeus chuckled softly.

Michael bit the inside of his cheek. “Because the apocalypse has been, as it were, averted...perhaps it would be for the best for him to return there.”

“He can barely function outside of it anyways. He’s damaged goods. It would be better for the lot of us if he was put away.” Crowley prompted.

“It was meant to be his punishment.” Alastair decided. “He wasn’t meant to be given Hell to rule. And like Crowley said. Better for him to suffer alone than to spread his pain to others.” Alastair paused. “Do you know what he’s done to your vessel, Michael?” He hid a smirk from crossing his lips, expression morphing into one of perfectly acted pity.

“I have no need of Dean, and no care for his fate.” But even Michael couldn’t hide the curiosity in his tone. “And I believed you had claim over him.”

“And I in no way gave permission for him to be raped. He’s overstepping his bounds even in Hell.” Alastair hummed, and he could see the switch flip in Michael’s eyes. He was fully on board.

“I will support this movement of yours. Maintain conversation and plans through prayer. I promise I will be listening.” And with a gust of ferocious wind from his wings, Michael was gone.

“You’re certain about the cage?” Alastair turned to face Asmodeus. “You saw what it did to him the first time around.”

“I want that bastard to suffer.” Asmodeus spat. “I don’t care what it did to him, or what it does to him. I hope he finds a way to kill his sorry self while he’s down there.” And with that, he as well vanished.

“Well. I’d say that was an enlightening chat, wouldn’t you? Ciao.” And Alastair was alone in the forest.

He looked up at the sky and took a few breaths of fresh, clean air untainted by the scent of sulfur and smoke before in an instant, the clearing was empty once more.

“You said you wanted the rack tonight, yes?” Alastair hummed, looking down at Dean with a small smirk.

“Hell yeah. Haven’t done it in a while, figure it’s long overdue. Let’s do something fun.”

“Mm, fun for you or fun for me? There’s a difference.”

Dean paused, lips pursed in thought. “Dealer’s choice.”

Alastair’s smirk turned into a full bodied grin. He absolutely adored Dean’s willingness, his proclivity for pain. His darling boy was such a masochist, and such a team player about it as well. Letting Alastair test out new ideas or practice on him at a moment’s notice. “Mm, how kind of you. Have I ever used the gridiron with you?”

“Don’t think so.”

“Oh, you’re in for a treat, then.” Alastair held his hand out to Dean and they appeared in his chamber. “Stand back, now.” He guided Dean away from the center of the room before it opened up over a bed of coals and tongues of hot orange fire. 

“You humans were so inventive in the thirteenth century.” Alastair hummed, speaking as if he were teaching a lecture. In a way, he was. A wrought iron grid lowered itself from the ceiling to rest over the fire, held up by heavy chains. It had four cuffs, presumably for the wrists and ankles. 

“This is your chance to back out, by the way. Choose something else. Because I won’t take you out once you’re strapped down.” The demon informed. 

“Yeah, I know.” Dean bit his lip as he looked down at it. “When’s the last time you used this?”

“Oh, centuries ago to be sure. I just want to make sure it still holds up. Now get on before the iron heats.” Alastair directed. “Strip, first.”

Dean stripped naked with no complaint, wiping his brow as he felt himself start to sweat from the heat already filling the room.

Alastair watched, eyes white and cold and predatory. He wet his lips. Dean’s bare form wasn’t what aroused him, but what was about to happen to it was. “That’s it, lie down and strap in your ankles.”

Dean clambered onto the structure and bit his lower lip, pinching it between his teeth.

The gridiron swayed under his weight and tipped to one side before he balanced himself in the center and laid down.

The criss-cross bars pressed evenly into his back, and Dean could feel they were already warm.

He grunted as he sat up, wiping his brow once again before shackling in his ankles. He tugged onto the bonds to make sure they were secure and looked to his mentor for further instruction. 

“Now your left wrist. I don’t want to touch that much more than I have to.” Alastair directed, pacing around the opening on the floor. “Very good.” He praised as Dean followed his instruction. “Now just let me get that last one-“

He bent down to shackle Dean’s right wrist, and his skin burned as he did. It was the cost of keeping the instrument as genuine as possible. Iron would burn him more than the fire did.

Smoke rose from where he touched the shackles, but he didn’t so much as grimace. When he pulled back he simply inspected his blistered hands before waving one to lower another iron. 

“Now, not many had two sides. They simply stuck to one. But I, mm, like to get an even cook.” Alastair explained, and Dean flinched as the second wall of iron bars locked in on the first under his back.

After a few minutes he started to squirm, heat by then uncomfortable but not painful.

Alastair paced around to inspect it once in a while, making soft noises of approval.

Dean’s eyes flickered to the side and he could just barely see the iron he was resting on turning a shade of orange. By then he was letting out moans of pain, jerking his back up and trying to keep his chest pressed against the bars on top.

His back was reddened and blisters were starting to form. He heard sizzling and in the back of his mind he knew that was him.

A sweet, musty smell unique to burning human flesh filled the air and he let out his first yell of pain, gritting his teeth.

His skin was hard and it felt taut from how much it was inflamed. Smoke filled his nose and eyes and made it hard to breathe. Tears slid down his cheeks and he heard them sizzling on the coals below.

“Gah- Alastair-“

“Oh, if you can say my name I’m not letting you up any time soon. Mm, that’s three syllables too many.”

Dean groaned, screwing his eyes shut. He felt the pressure in his back lighten up a little and hot liquid sliding down his back. It sizzled when it came into contact with the grid, and even more so when it fell to the coals below.

“Your skin is starting to peel.” Alastair informed, giving Dean’s shoulder a prod with a steel fire poker. “And that liquid came from one of your blisters. You’re having a lovely histamine reaction.” He said, as if he were describing the most beautiful sunset.

Dean jerked weakly, suddenly gasping for air as if he couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t. The air was hot, burning his lungs and smoke clogged the back of his throat like a heavy rag.

Dean tried to arch his back again and found he couldn’t. It was stuck to the back of the gridiron. He shifted and gave a chopped short scream, eyes rolling.

His hands clenched and unclenched and his toes curled. He tried to shake his head when Alastair used the poker to press down hard on the top of the structure, dipping his head into the flames.

He closed his eyes but it was useless. His hair lit up like it had been dowsed in gasoline, and his eyebrows and eyelashes singed and curled up like pine needles on a burning branch. When he opened his eyes they were dull and clouded.

His mouth gaped like he was a dead fish and he let out rasping, choked gasps until Alastair let up the pressure and the gridiron swung back into place. “Al’stair- please-“ He wheezed, squirming weakly.

“No, not yet, I’m afraid. You asked for this, you’ll get the whole thing.” Alastair hummed, tapping the side of Dean’s smouldering head with the poker.

His skin blackened and charred, and Dean sobbed. It felt like he was on fire and so cold at the same time. He couldn’t move, he couldn’t see. He could barely hear anything. Every breath was a struggle, he felt his insides cooking along with his skin.

“Do you think it’s time to turn you over?” Alastair asked after another half hour. Dean was still awake. Hell allowed Alastair to force it, and it allowed him to keep Dean’s nerve endings from dying when they were burned.

Dean groaned, letting out low whimpers and whines of pain.

“I think we should.” And then the gridiron flipped, and Dean found his back was stuck to the top. For a few seconds, at least, before Alastair aimed the poker between his shoulder blades and gave a harsh jab. His flesh ripped from the gridiron and he let out a hoarse scream. 

Bone showed in patches on his back, and browned and blackened muscle shown through in others. He tried to lift his head up, to keep it from pressing into the bars, but Alastair forced that down too, hard enough to break his nose.

“Nh- st’p- hhhhal’str Please- please please please-“ Dean rasped, blood dripping from his lips into the fire. “Nnngh- st’p make it-“

“We’re so close, just a little longer. I promise.” Alastair crooned, humming to himself as he watched.

Dean had a big enough burst of adrenaline to start thrashing, jerking his limbs like he was a puppet on strings. He let out a choked sob as he collapsed, tears streaming down from blind eyes to sizzle on the fire’s coals. 

When the gridiron finally lifted and his front was just as blackened and blistered as his back, Dean was barely moving.

It took a lot of work on Alastair’s part to half scrape, half rip him off of the metal.

Dean collapsed on the floor as it closed back over to coals, shaking as he slowly pulled himself into a fetal position.

Alastair smoothed his fingers over the back of Dean’s head and they came back sticky with congealed blood and puss. He smiled warmly. “There we go. Did we have fun?”

“Ye-es.” Dean sobbed.

“Good, good. Do you want to stay like this or should I heal you?”

“S-st’y.”

“I know. I know, you like the pain. You need it. So...cathartic, isn’t it? I’ll lay you down in bed and you can rest.”

And Alastair picking him up and cradling in his arms was like hell on his damaged skin, and Dean loved it. 

“Th’nk ‘ou.”

“Mm, you’re welcome.” They appeared back in the flat and Alastair carefully lay Dean down on the bed. Blood and flecks of ashen skin smeared on the white blankets, but Alastair didn’t care. He allowed Dean to drift off into a half sleep, half dazed trance, and sat down at a small work desk to continue working on plans for rebellion. He offered small words of praise and encouragement from time to time, and Dean bathed in them. Relished in them.

The pair didn’t do things like this very often. But when they did Dean was always so much calmer afterwards, and the same could even be said for Alastair. It was a labor of love.


	17. Chapter Seventeen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Exploring the differences between how Dean and Sam are treated by their respective mentors.
> 
> Chapter specific tags: self harm, Lucifer sucks

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for such a short chapter compared to last one. I promise, I’ll do better! There’s big things in store for this work.
> 
> I hope you enjoy and as always, thank you for your continued support!

Dean coughed himself awake, rubbing at his throat. The sheets were clean and his body was restored. It always felt so strange after being raw. You could feel everything, every movement and touch was like hot acid, and skin was like a rubber glove that dulled it all.

Alastair was holding him, pressed lightly against his back. “Good morning.” He hummed softly. “Mm, did we sleep alright?”

“Better than alright.” Dean croaked, voice still hoarse as he nestled back into Alastair’s embrace. “You said you wanted to tell me somethin’?”

Alastair faltered, and let out a soft sigh. “Yes, yes I did.” He said after a few moments. This was always a difficult thing to talk about, to get through. “I know you...were curious, about me, where I came from. All that.” Another long pause.

Dean cringed. He felt such incredible guilt for sniffing out the truth under Alastair’s nose, and he dreaded the fact the demon might know. He didn’t know how to act surprised about the news. “Yeah?”

“When I say I’m old, Dean, I really do mean it. I’m as old as a human can possibly get. I..was the first.” Alastair said slowly, words measured and carefully chosen.

“First?” Dean grunted. “Like, Adam, first?”

“Yes, exactly like that.” Alastair sighed, gently running his thumb along Dean’s ribs. “Precisely.”

“...I guess that blows evolution outta the water, then.” Dean chuckled softly.

Alastair slumped, the gesture wholly grateful in nature. The last thing he needed to do was reminisce, or answer questions.

“Mm, not quite. Evolution is a cosmic joke you lot aren’t ready to understand yet.” Alastair closed his eyes. “Breakfast?”

“Nah, I’m not hungry.” Dean decided. “Can we do that again next week?” 

“We can do it sooner, if you’d like. Tell you what,” Alastair said, adjusting his hold on Dean. “Why don’t you find something creative you want me to do, and I’ll think about it. Sound good?”

“Sounds perfect.” Dean said, tilting his head to kiss Alastair’s cheek. “Thanks.”

“It’s my pleasure. Now get up, get dressed. Get a move on.” Alastair nudged Dean’s side with his knee. “You’re meeting Sam tomorrow. Get tired, work all that angst out of your system before you do.”

Dean nodded. “Yessir.” He stayed close to Alastair a few seconds more before he slipped out of bed, padding over to the dresser. “Hey, Al?” He asked.

“Yes?” Alastair quirked a brow, lounging back.

“Where do you go after working hours? You haven’t been coming home a lot lately.” Dean frowned, pulling on a shirt.

“Oh, Dean. You must let me keep at least  _ some  _ secrets.” Alastair bemoaned, sitting up and stretching his back. He walked up behind Dean and gently thumbed at his cheek. “Make sure you think about what you want me to do next time.” He reminded, before getting dressed himself and disappearing.

“Come on, Sammy, it’s not that hard. What’s this character.” Lucifer asked, holding up a notecard.

Sam shook his head, bringing his hand up to the side of his head to tug lightly on his hair. “I don’t- I don’t know.” His eyes were red rimmed and puffy from crying, his chest shaking from each breath out of fear. He couldn’t fail, he had to be perfect, he just couldn’t remember it was so damn hard to think like this and he couldn’t-

“Quickly now, Sam, I know you can do it. You’re intelligent, for a human. Just give me the name of the character.” He waved the index card again and it made a soft  _ fwub _ noise as the thick paper undulated.

The pair sat crosslegged in the floor of Lucifer’s rarely used bedroom, about three feet apart.

“G-graph?” Sam tried, voice shaking.

Lucifer hissed in a soft breath through his teeth. “Ooh, so close. This, my friend, is ‘pal’.”

And Sam was shaking, pressing back, raising his hands to the sides of his head and screwing his eyes shut. “I’m sorry-“

“No, you’re not.” Lucifer said bitterly. “You’re not sorry, you’re scared. One last character, one last strike and you’re out.” Another notecard, and Sam blinked his eyes open. Everything was swimming, hazy, he could barely see through his tears.

“Fuck- um- or?”

Lucifer tutted and shook his head. “Un.” He corrected. “Now, Sam, can you tell me how we best remember things?”

“I don’t-“ Sam shook his head. “I don’t know.”

“Of course you don’t, that’s why you’ve done such a shit job.” Lucifer set the card down and picked up a straight razor. “The best thing to do to remember something is to write it down. Take off your shirt.”

Sam slowly lifted off his shirt to reveal a scarred chest with cuts ranging from years old to from just the day before. “Please, don’t-“

“Oh, I won’t do anything.” Lucifer flipped the blade in his hand and pressed the handle into Sam’s palm. “It won’t help you remember if I’m the one writing, now will it? A hundred lines of each character you got wrong and the English sound equivalent. Say it out loud as you carve. Go.”

Sam whimpered, hands shaking as he slowly made a line in his lower abdomen, blood leaking from the quarter inch deep slice. He added a perpendicular line going to the left from the top. “Graph.” He said, biting his lip as he carved a jagged e next to it. By the time he was done with that one character (forty five minutes) he’d gone from the very top of his thigh all the way up to his collar bone, twice. His chest was already slicked in blood, and the notecard he was using for reference was spotted with it.

“Very good.” Lucifer praised, before raising a hand. Any writing with shaky penmanship he healed away, and he wiped the blood away from the rest. He ended up getting rid of half of them. “Redo the ones you messed up.” He instructed, and Sam wailed.

They went on for hours, until Sam’s body was covered and he had to use a mirror to write on his back, over and over again because it was so hard when you couldn’t see it straight on. He was sobbing, eyes brimming with tears that as soon as he blinked them away his vision was cloudy again and he couldn’t see anything but grey stone and tan skin and deep red blood.

He collapsed on the floor and Lucifer guided him back up again. Sam shook his head frantically when he saw another card in his hand. “I can’t- I can’t, Lucifer, please, let me rest. Let me drink, let me-“

“Shh. Just a little longer, Sammy. Just a little longer.”

A little longer turned into four more hours. Four more hours of failure and carving and blood loss and  _ craving  _ because it had been so long since he fed, and he didn’t know why Lucifer was depriving him and making him learn and he just wanted to not be able to think again if this was the alternative.


	18. Chapter Eighteen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean reminisces before Sam’s visit.
> 
> Chapter specific tags: a happy moment!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all sooooo much for your feedback and support. I love it. Keep it coming.
> 
> This was fun to write, and Sa:might end up becoming more of a key player than I thought. Let me know what you think!

Before Sam came Dean liked to get in the right headspace. So he got himself a beer from the fridge and sat down at the kitchen table to drink and remember.

Not his time on earth, because thinking about that was painful. He didn’t miss it, but he missed the Sam in those memories. The pigheaded little brother who he thought was so much smarter than him, who was always by his side even if they disagreed, who loved him like a brother. He’d realized thinking about that to prep himself only made things worse.

No, he looked back on his time in Hell. His first thirty years. And he didn’t deny it was through rose colored glasses and romanticized, but with how he was now it was hard for it not to be. He remembered each unique pain and Alastair’s cajoling, wheedling voice. It had been more than he’d ever dealt with before, but he’d always kept that bravado, that snark. That was why Alastair tried so hard to be creative.

He remembered the day Alastair didn’t raise a hand to hurt him. He’d just opened a cage of rats on his stomach and heated the bars of it so the rodents had no choice but to chew through him to escape, digging and burrowing and tearing into his flesh, ripping his intestines to pieces with tiny, razor sharp teeth. When they had gotten to his lungs his screams came out wheezy and bubbly, blood caught in his throat. After a while they weren’t panicked anymore, just gorging themselves on him.

And then there was the day he had a tube down his throat. It was water, and at first he’d been so grateful because he hadn’t had anything to drink in years. But it didn’t stop, and it was so full, and every time he pissed it completed an electric circuit that went directly to him. And each time the voltage raised. It was a battle he knew he’d have to lose, but he was determined. Body soaked in sweat, thighs shaking, toes curled and fists clenched. He’d held on until his bladder ruptured, and he remembered that was the first time Alastair was really startled by him. His resilience wasn’t the same as his father’s. John took everything without feeling, distancing himself perfectly from the circumstance. Dean, though, was so angry, so stupidly brave that he kept his head above the water out of spite. That, of course, wears out faster than blind acceptance, and it merited such worse torments.

He remembered lessons in anatomy. Alastair would excuse something specific. Dean would either have to identify it, or Alastair would explain its purpose, where to cut to get to it, what pain it wrought. 

Dean remembered the skin of his arm flayed and butterfly pinned to the side, exposing the muscles underneath. He let out a low whimper, eyes slipping shut.

“Ah- eyes open, Dean, don’t make me cut off those eyelids.” Alastair had warned, lifting his scalpel and making a few small cuts.

Dean cried out in pain, jerking weakly in his bonds and clenching his jaw.

“Now,” Alastair hummed, lifting up a long strip of muscle. “This is one of the main flexors that works to move your wrist. Give moving a shot.”

And Dean obliged, and he found it was so hard, and he felt so weak and one-sided doing it. Eyes sliding to the side he could see his muscles moving and the now obvious gap.

Alastair went through all the muscles in his right arm, explaining and demonstrating their purpose until there was nothing left but that butterfly pinned skin and bones.

The left arm was a test. Hold up and describe the function of a muscle, and Dean had to name it. Alastair was patient, and Dean wasn’t half bad at remembering.

Then there were days of deprivation and isolation. Not very often, Alastair knew the danger of that. But maybe once every five years or so, everything would stop. Dean wouldn’t be tied to the rack. And it wasn’t half bad, at first. He walked around, he stretched, he familiarized himself with the room.

Sometimes he tried grabbing one of the books, but Alastair had made sure none of them were in English for these stretches of time.

Dean would look down at enochian and infernal and it would mean nothing to him, and he would throw the book into the fire out of frustration. It would simply appear back on the shelf where it had been before, as if to mock him.

After a few days he would be pacing, exercising, running the drills John had taught him as a child. Anything to keep busy. A few days after that and he was talking to himself, muttering, promising himself he’d have revenge and he’d tear into Alastair and for a while, the images comforted him.

Just days after he would carve into himself because if he could at least feel pain he would be feeling something. He wrote stories into the skin of his thighs and drew patterns into his arms, he ran the straight razor down his chest and pulled out his intestines, watching them spill and loop on the floor.

The next day he’d be restored and he’d do it all over again. He’d cast himself into the fire, he’d drown himself in the sink. He’d slit his throat and root out his voice box and try to scream after clawing and ripping at it.

And it never lasted more than three months. In the days following Alastair was kind to him, or at least, as kind as he could be while offering round the clock torture, and he never forgot to ask. Never forgot to offer. ‘You can give all this up, Dean, if you just take my razor. Take your place beside me, carve into a soul.’

And Dean spat in his face. Told him to shove his razor up his ass, told him to fuck right the hell off and go back to murdering puppies or whatever else he did for fun. And Alastair would laugh, and drive the razor back into Dean.

Dean smiled as he thought back, looking for all the life of him like a schoolgirl dreaming of her first kiss, until there was a knock on the door.

He sighed heavily and took a final swig of his beer before walking up and pulling it open.

What surprised him was that rather than what he usually got- a Sam with black eyes and a taste for blood and the ability to finally exert power over something, he got one with weary eyes and a bloodstained shirt.

“Dean?” Sam croaked, blinking slowly. He saw his brother was on edge, tense, ready for a fight.

“What do you want this time?” Dean asked flatly.

“Can I sit down?”

Dean frowned. “What the hell are you playing at?”

“Please, just let me sit down. I want to rest.”

Dean blocked the doorway for a few more seconds before he stepped aside, watching as Sam staggered in and took a seat at the table with a harsh wince.

“What the hell happened to you?” Dean asked, walking over to the fridge and grabbing another beer. Sam looked like he needed it.

“I failed. I’m failing. I can’t- its too much, I can’t be enough for him.” Sam scrubbed his hands over his face, jerking lightly as he fought back tears.

Dean stared. He opened his mouth to remind Sam that he of all people shouldn’t be getting weepy, that he should be better than this, but...well, even after everything they were still brothers. And Dean had seen what Lucifer could do, had heard about it through the grapevine.

“Hey. It’s alright.” He soothed, or at least tried to. He opened the beer and handed it over. “Why don’t you have a drink, we can just sit.”

“But-“ Sam started, clearing his throat. “I have to do something. And-“

“Well, is Lucifer watching, or do you have to tell him what went on?” Dean raised a brow.

“I...I guess I have to tell him? Where are you going with this?”

Dean stood and walked up to the kitchen counter, taking a knife out of the block. “Well, you can tell that rat bastard e had a scuffle and…” Dean raised his hand and laid it flat again the wall before he drove the blade in to pin it there. He barely flinched, only grunting.

Sam jumped. “What the hell are you doing?”

“Better when there’s evidence, isn’t there?” Dean arched a brow and yanked the knife back out, gasping as blood spilled from the wound. “You pinned me there and you raped me.” Dean tapped the wall again, smearing blood over the white plaster.

Sam looked at Dean like he was crazy, before realizing he was really one to talk, and nodded. “Right. Okay.” He cleared his throat, wetting his lips as he saw the blood drip lazily down the wall. “What now?”

Dean shrugged. “Wanna play sorry? I ain’t got a busy schedule today.”

“Sorry?”

“The board game, Sammy.” Dean explained. “Do you want to play the game? Because I don’t want to hash out my feelings, and I know you don’t either. You just need a space to relax. And when you’re not high on blood when you come here, we can just do something nice. Okay?”

Sam was silent for a few moments. Then his lips quirked up in a tiny smile. “Yeah. I think I’d like that.”

“Great. You’re gonna have to draw cards for both of us, though. Don’t wanna get ‘em bloody.” Dean wiggled the red smeared fingers of his left hand.

And...they had a fun time. Sam went from shy smiles to laughing, and Dean was grinning the whole way through because this was the first time he’d seen Sam in a long while. The real Sam. And it was perfect.


	19. Chapter Nineteen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alastair speaks to an old friend, and Sam returns to Lucifer
> 
> Chapter tags: mentioned rape

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I absolutely love Terry Pratchett’s writing so of course I’ve used Discworld’s Death. It’s a fun character to play with.
> 
> Sorry again for the shorter chapter, but I hope you enjoy it! Leave your thoughts in the comments :)

“Hello, old friend.” Alastair hummed, eyes flashing white. He had to be careful here, because one misstep could certainly mean...well, Death.

HELLO, ALASTAIR. And His voice was like the grinding of granite tombstones against one another, like the slamming of coffin lids and the toll of a hundred thousand funeral bells.

“You know, you could have worn that skin of yours to...mm, come.” Alastair raised a brow. 

NOT FOR YOU. IT IS AN...UNNECESSARY BARRIER. WHY BOTHER HIDING WHAT YOU KNOW IS ALREADY THERE?

“Fair enough. I’m sure you already know what I want to ask for.” Alastair cleared his throat, looking into eye sockets with ethereal blue pinpricks of light to act as pupils.

MY RING? And He looked down at his bony hand, at the small ring around his index finger. TO ENTRAP LUCIFER.

“Yes. Would you consider helping us?” Alastair asked lightly, clasping his hands behind his back.

THERE ARE MANY WAYS TO ENSNARE THE DEVIL, ALASTAIR. ARE YOU CERTAIN THE CAGE IS THE CORRECT ONE?

Alastair sighed softly, shaking his head. “I doubt there is a correct one, in this scenario. It may be the easiest, though.” 

Death was silent for a moment. CORRECT WAS A POOR CHOICE OF WORDS. I DOUBT THERE IS A WORD FOR WHAT I WANT TO ASK. PERHAPS...IS IT THE HUMANE CHOICE?

Alastair leaned back. “Does Lucifer deserve the humane choice, Death? After what he’s done? His father has decided his fate already.”

AND GOD WAS A FOOL FOR DOING IT. Death paused. I WILL GIVE YOU MY RING, YES. ON ONE CONDITION.

Alastair let out a put upon sigh, brows raised. “And that would be?”

THE CAGE IS A LAST RESORT. TRY A DIFFERENT WAY, FIRST, AND IF THAT FAILS…

Alastair nodded slowly. “Understood. Thank you. It was…”

GOOD TO SEE YOU AGAIN. Death finished for him. YOU HAVEN’T CHANGED AS MUCH AS YOU THINK, ALASTAIR. I STILL ENJOY YOUR COMPANY. He pulled off his ring and dropped it into Alastair’s hand. It was cold as ice. UNTIL NEXT TIME.

And with that, He was gone.

Alastair slumped, shuddering as he slipped the ring into his pocket. One down, three to go.

Eyes raised to the ceiling, he prayed. _I have bargained with Death. War is up to you._

“And I r- I fucked him.” Sam explained, voice wavering. He should have been alright, he should have been calm. But still, the fact that Dean had cared so much for him after everything he’d done to deserve the opposite made him feel like trash. Less than trash.

“Did you like it?” Lucifer leaned forward, brows raised in curiosity. He tapped his fingers on his knees.

“I...yes? I don’t know. I don’t know if I felt anything.” Sam stared down at the floor, unable to meet Lucifer’s eyes.

“That’s alright, Sam. You’ll get better.” Lucifer soothed softly, voice gentle and almost melodic.

Sam nodded jerkily, letting out a sigh of relief and running a soft hand through his hair. It was a nervous tic turned coping mechanism.

“I think you need to feed, mm? I think that would help.” Lucifer reacher forwards and took Sam’s hand in his own, guiding it down and away from his head.

Sam responded to this by instead using his hand to pick and scratch at the cuts on his arm, shaking his head. “No, no. No. Please? I don’t- not if there’s a lesson tonight. Please.”

“The best thinkers are able to perform under duress and handicap.” Lucifer quipped. “And you’re smart, aren’t you, Sam?”

Sam nodded again. “Yes?”

“Yes, you are. So you can answer a question for me, right?” Lucifer hummed, voice for the moment still soft.

“Y-yeah.”

“Do you not want the blood because you can’t think straight, or because you think it makes you less human?”

Sam cleared his throat, frozen in place, “Because I can’t think straight.” He said, hoping desperately it was what Lucifer wanted to hear.

“You sure? Don’t wanna phone a friend?”

“I- I- both?” Sam tried, brow creasing. As he got more panicked, sure that Lucifer would snap and punish him his breath quickened until he was hyperventilating.

“Good, very good. Now you’re going to feed. Because I don’t care if you can’t think, you’ll just have to learn a way around that. But I do care that you’re still clinging to humanity. Because that’s weak, isn’t it Sam?”

“Yes.” Sam whispered.

“And I can’t have something weak in my court, can I?”

“N-no.”

“Good. Good boy, Sam.” Lucifer praised. “I’m going to call a demon in here and you’re going to bleed them dry. Understand?”

“Yes.” Sam’s voice was barely audible, tears in his eyes.

Lucifer snapped his fingers and a demon appeared in the center of the throneroom. He handed Sam a knife. 

Sam’s hand was shaking like a jackhammer and his heart was pounding in his chest. “Lucifer-“

“Go on, Sam. You’re already getting on my nerves with this.”

Sam cringed and stood, catching himself just barely as his knees buckled. He felt like he was going to vomit, he felt like his heart was going to explode in his chest.

“ _Go on_.”

Sam cleared his throat and walked forward, swiping the blade across the demon’s throat without a word before he leaned in and wrapped his lips around the incision. He drank and he felt power rushing through his veins. He felt strong, he felt perfect. He drank and forgot his guilt, forgot his fears. He stopped shaking. He started drinking greedily, licking and sucking and groaning as he used the blade to deepen the incision. When no more blood came he sliced one of the demon’s wrists and drank from there, eyes filling out to a solid black as he did. He felt perfect. He felt free and subservient all at the same time, he was Lucifer’s. And that was all that mattered to him.


	20. Chapter Twenty

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A flashback to Adam, and another scene between Alastair and Dean.
> 
> Chapter specific tags: flashback, Alastair and Dean torture sesh (couple’s bonding)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Took my favorite things I’ve done in the past while and put them in one chapter. Enjoy more Death and Dean angst. I’ll get back to plot soon, I promise lol

Alastair frowned, looking down at the ring cupped in his hand. He had been feeling so much more vulnerable lately, and he despised it. He didn’t want to think of himself as human. As Adam, the stupid, trusting, weak, pathetic thing formed of dust. He was above that. He hoped he was. He ran his thumb over the polished white stone, shaking his head. He remembered when he first saw Death.

He wasn’t slain, nor did he fall sick. It was age that claimed him, after...what, 930 years? He was a little hazy on that, sometimes.

He’d laid in bed, frail and weary. He knew his time had come. And for the first time in centuries, he saw an angel. Michael was there, he had come to see him off.

“Why are you here?” Alastair- still Adam, then, had rasped. “I’m not going with you, you must know that. I’m sure my exile from Heaven was-“ He coughed, closing his eyes. “Permanent.”

“It is.” Michael confirmed, taking a few steps forward. He laid his lance against the wall and placed a hand on Adam’s shoulder. “But I do not believe you should have to go alone. That was not part of your punishment.”

“No?” Adam gave a slight smile. “I never thought it would be you I saw last.” He had hoped for Gabriel, because the archangel had never upheld his promise to visit. Adam thought he must have forgotten.

“Are you disappointed?”

Adam shook his head. “Not at all. Pleasantly surprised.”

Michael nodded, not retracting his hand. “What do you want to happen to you?”

“This body?” Adam looked down at himself. “If you could find where we buried Abel. With him. Please.”

“It shall be done.” Michael sighed heavily. “You can let go, Adam. I will see to it that it is done. Let me ease your pain.”

“...Thank you, Michael. I only wish it hadn’t had to be like this. If I had known-“

“And you had refused her? You would have been left in heaven with naught but angels for company. You would have been alone.” Michael looked down at the ground. “Sometimes I wonder if this is what father wanted.”

“It can’t be. The tree was forbidden.”

“But it was there. Within reach. Why? I don’t understand.”

“I doubt anyone will. Don’t fall into the same pit Samael did. He knows what He’s doing, Michael. You are His soldier. His weapon. There is no room for doubt in you.” Adam insisted. “If you can doubt our father, then I have no hope.”

Michael nodded slowly. “You are right.” He sighed, and upon receiving no response, “...Adam?” He looked down at the body on the bed and his shoulders slumped.

Carefully, he closed the first man’s eyes. He was suddenly overwhelmed with emotion he’d never experienced fully, grief clutching at his grace like a vice and bringing tears to his vessel’s eyes. He shook his head, letting out a soft sigh. He walked out of the tent and closed his eyes, fists clenched by his sides.

Adam slowly sat down and frowned. He’d assumed it would be...instantaneous. Lights out and then he’d be in Hell, whatever that was like. Instead he was looking down at his own body. “I-“

ADAM.

There was a skeletal figure in the corner of the tent, cloaked in shadowy robes. Wings of the deepest black arched overhead. There weren’t feathers, just the shapes of them. It looked wrong, it looked like a hole in the universe and Adam could see galaxies and constellations spinning and burning and dying inside. His face paled and he pressed away. Even with seeing angels’ true forms, even seeing the face of god, compared to that this was terrifying. It stepped forward, skull cocked to the side.

DO NOT BE AFRAID. I WILL NOT HARM YOU. IT IS SIMPLY MY DUTY TO...GUIDE YOU.

Adam swallowed, throat bobbing. “To Hell?”

YES. Death paused. MY CONDOLENCES. That was the customary saying, wasn’t it? Or was he remembering wrong. He had an odd memory, given the unique nature of time. Past, future, it was all the same. One great circle.

“It’s alright.” Adam frowned, looking down at himself again. “I didn’t know Death was...a person.”

I AM NOT. Death said simply. I AM AS FAR REMOVED FROM A PERSON AS ONE BEING CAN GET.

Adam chuckled softly. “I suppose you’re right.” He sighed heavily. “Do we have to go now?”

ARE YOU WANTING TO STAY?

“Just for a little while.” Adam confirmed. 

AND DO WHAT? YOU CANNOT SIMPLY...DO THINGS. YOU’RE NOT CORPOREAL.

“And neither are you, and yet you’re holding that scythe.” Adam gave a grin. “We could play a game?” It was impossible to tell what with there being just a skull and all, but Adam was certain Death was smiling.

A GAME.

“Yes, I’m sure you heard me well enough. There’s a small box by your feet.”

Death stooped down and wrapped long, bony fingers around a wooden case a little over seven inches long. THIS?

“Yes, set it up on the ground.” Adam pushed himself away fro: his body and sat crosslegged on the ground.

Death couldn’t help but be amused. In His as of yet short career, no one had offered to entertain Him with anything, much less a game. I AM BENDING THE RULES FOR YOU, YOU KNOW. He informed. I COULD GET IN TROUBLE.

“Something like you? I doubt it.” After a few seconds of effort, Adam finally managed to interact with the case and open it to reveal a mancala board. “It’s not as if you can kill Death, can you?”

Death chuckled. NOT YET. He scratched at the side of His skull. WOULD YOU EXPLAIN HOW THIS IS SUPPOSED TO WORK? He asked as he watched Adam distribute small, rounded stones into the wells carved into the wood.

Adam did. They played several rounds, lasting long into the night. By then they were talking amiably, as if they had long been friends. Adam hadn’t noticed when Michael bore his body out of the tent, and if he had he wouldn’t have cared much.

IT IS TIME.

Adam sighed. “I was hoping you wouldn’t say that.” He said, closing the board. “Thank you for this.”

THANK YOU, ADAM. Death tilted His head to the side. I HOPE WE CAN MEET AGAIN. UNDER DIFFERENT CIRCUMSTANCES.

“If it’s possible, I do too.” Adam gave a tiny smile and stood. He held out a hand and Death took it, bony fingers wrapping around incorporeal ones.

WALK WITH ME. THEN WE WILL ARRIVE.

And Adam did. He walked a few paces and the world as he knew it faded around him into an inky blackness. He did not ask for an explanation and Death offered none. And suddenly he was alone, and there was fire, and pain, and Lucifer.

Alastair clenched his jaw and tore his eyes away from the ring. He stood and secreted it away in a drawer in his room and sighed heavily, shaking his head. That wasn’t who he was anymore. And it was painful to remember.

He stood and walked out to the living room. “Well, Dean, have you made a decision?”

“Dealer’s choice again.” Dean hummed.

“I can’t tell if you’re being lazy or humoring me.” Alastair chuckled. “Why don’t you strip before we go, mm?”

Dean nodded and stood, slowly stripping bare and placing his hands on his hips with a cheeky grin.

Alastair rolled his eyes and the pair appeared in his chambers. “Get on the rack, mm? We’ll have some fun with that first.”

Dena pulled himself onto the table and sat up, slipping his ankles into the cuffs and then his left wrist, leaving Alastair to do the right. 

“Very good. Now, do you know what this was originally used for?”

“It was the Uh, stretching thing, right?”

Alastair chuckled. “Yes, very good. Do you want to make a bet?”

Dean fleshed against these bonds, shrugging. “Sure.”

“Do you think your hips or shoulders will go first?” Alastair asked, checking that the lever mechanism was fully operational.

“Oh, shoulders for sure. We did strappado a while ago and I’m still feeling weird from it.”

“If you’re so sure.” Alastair cranked the lever, watching as the cuffs around Dean’s wrists and ankles pulled about an inch further apart.

Dean’s back cracked and he let out a contented groan, closing his eyes. “You certain this is torture, Al?” He baited.

“Quite certain.” A few more cranks if the lever and the cuffs pulled back three inches.

Dean, then, was starting to feel uncomfortable. He was stretched taut, and he could barely arch his back off of the table. He tilted his head to crack his neck and grunted.

Another crank and Dean let out a surprised yell of pain, gritting his teeth. It wasn’t a fleeting pain, not at all. He felt his muscles being stretched, the bones of his arms threatening to pop out of their sockets. It was an awful, almost tearing, burning pain.

“One more ought to do it, wouldn’t you think?” 

Dean nodded, letting out a shaky breath. He yelled again at the next crank. He felt the immediate pain of his shoulders popping out of their sockets, followed by a lingering ache and continued stretching pain.

Alastair kept going. Faster, now. Each pull of the lever was a grunt or shout of pain, until Dean’s arms were dislocated at the elbows, and finally, his thighs- which earned him a howling scream and tears.

Alastair for Dean to calm and gently ran a hand down his chest. “What now, do you think? Keep going for knees, wrists, and ankles, or move on?”

Dean gasped out sharply, jerking. “Keep- keep going.” He grunted.

“Good boy.” Alastair praised. He went back to the lever and Dean screamed until his throat was hoarse as he went without break between pulls, faster and faster. His wrists went first, then his ankles before finally, his knees.

Something in his back went and Dean slumped, eyes wide and wet with salty tears and mouth hanging open. He let out a wheezing cry, shaking.

Alastair wet his lips, humming softly. “Alligator shears or lead sprinkler?”

Dean groaned weakly. “Sp’nkler.”

“Mm, good choice. One of my favorites.” Alastair hummed and picked up a small, handheld device consisting of a metal handle connected to a hollow ball drilled with small holes.

“I’m going to end up using both, you know.” Alastair watched as Dean gave the barest of nods. He dipped the ball into a readily summoned vat of molten lead, letting it sit inside a few moments to fill up. “I would, mm, close your eyes if I were you.”

Dean did just that, not watching as Alastair lifted the ball out of the lead and flicked it over Dean’s prone body.

Lead splattered one his skin and he screamed, unable to move or struggle as it sizzled and burned against his flesh.

Alastair paid special attention to his groin and thighs, and each drip of lead across his cock and balls was pure agony, worse than the rest just because of the sensitivity.

“Hh- hngh, Al- Al- fuck-“

“You can do it.” Alastair promised. “You’ve had worse.” He smoothed a hand over Dean’s side and smeared the still liquid metal across his skin. He went on for nearly half an hour until Dean’s entire body save for his face was covered in welts and burns and metal. 

“Open those eyes for me, now.”

And when Dean did it was only to see red hot metal pouring out towards them. He screeched, finally finding the ability to writhe and struggle, only serving to push his joints further out of position.

Dean let out choked, broken sobs, chest shuddering and heaving. His head flopped to the side and he wailed, pain all encompassing. He couldn’t see. He hated not seeing what would come next.

“A- ahhn-“

“You don’t need to talk. I know what you need.” Alastair soothed.

Dean gave no response, but that was alright.

Alastair lifted the shears from where they sat waiting in the fire. They were large, big enough to sever limbs with a single cut. If the victim was lucky enough not to end up with a dull pair, of course.

Lucky (or unlucky) for Dean, what Alastair had in mind was much smaller than an arm.

When the red hot shears closed around Dean’s cock he couldn’t even scream, his voice was too spent. But Alastair could see it in the bulging of the veins on his neck, his face contorted in agony, his mouth open and straining.

He set the shears aside and hummed softly to himself. “That’s it. Let it all out.” He murmured, unbinding Dean’s wrists and ankles.

Dean sobbed, quivering as he was bundled up in Alastair’s hold. His legs swung unnaturally and he couldn’t move his arms. He was like a rag doll.

“Beautiful. Now, on to bed, mm?” They appeared in the bedroom, and Dean felt his back hit the sheets. He relaxed and, through the pain, gave a contented smile.


	21. Chapter Twenty One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We go through the dealings for the three other rings.
> 
> Chapter specific tags: gore, whump, alcohol abuse, inappropriate use of grace (no! Bad demon! Not a snack!)

_ War is up to you _ . Michael sighed, leaning back behind his desk and closing his eyes. With wing beats as strong as hurricane gales, he disappeared from heaven. 

He landed in a green field, with high trees around the perimeter. The civil war battlefield in Carthage, Missouri. Further on past the trees there was a small stream, and he could hear its babbling and the calls of wildlife.

It was a guessing game sometimes, when you wanted to find War. Sometimes He would be at the site of a battle long since fought, at others on the front lines. Though Michael doubted He would refuse a direct summons.

There was a hand, suddenly, on Michael’s shoulder, and he turned to look.

War looked like every boy who dies on the front lines, He looked like the battle hardened generals that sent them there. He looked like the greed that started the war in the first place, and the carrion birds that swept away the evidence. Like many things that aren’t quite human, He was terrible and beautiful and so recognizably Him.

“There’s my favorite general.” He said, grinning. “You know, it’s been so long since I’ve seen an angelic war. Don’t tell me you want to start one?”

Michael closed his eyes and let out a weary sigh. “It is a possibility. Yes.”

“And not even on daddy’s orders? My, Michael, I could swear I smell a sense of free will on you. Spending too much time with Adam, I think.”

“ ‘Daddy’ is not here to give orders. It is in our best interests that I make my own so we are not tied up waiting for an absent father.” Michael said, jaw clenching.

“Oh, I wouldn’t say he’s absent. He’s the kinda dad that left to get cigarettes and never came back, but always finds a way to be in the last stand at his kid’s ballgame.” War chuckled.

“I don’t understand,” Michael frowned. “We’re not here to talk about Him.”

“No, I know.” War hummed, taking a step back and walking around Michael to look up at the trees. “What are you planning to do with Hell?”

“I plan to leave it to the victors. They can do a better job running it than an angel would, we weren’t meant to be there.”

“Mm. Except for Lucifer, of course.” He said with a wry smile, and Michael so painfully missed the sarcasm in his voice,

“Of course. Except for Lucifer.”

“And you’re needing my ring, right?” War raised His left hand and wiggled His pinky. “What makes you think I wanna deal with you, fly-boy?”

“Because I doubt you can resist the allure of a war between heaven and hell.”

War hummed, pursing His lips. “You’re right. I can’t. But…” He twisted His ring. “Well, I’ll give you this if your little ‘posse’ can wrest away Famine’s. I think that’s a lofty enough challenge.” He grinned.

Michael nodded, and held out a hand for War to shake. 

“You boys best know what you’re getting into.” War said, and took it. His grip was like a vice, His skin like fire.

Crowley looked down at the book in hand for a few more seconds before he closed it. There was the question of how in god’s green earth one tracked down an entity that didn’t exactly like being found. Unlike Alastair and Michael, he didn’t have the luxury of being previously introduced. Couple that with the fact he was with one of the more...undesirable marks, and he was a mix between anxious and fed up with the job he was given. But he did have a plan. He wasn’t stupid enough to walk in without one.

He chose an isolated spot to contact Him, because even he didn’t want to see the death He brought. He looked down at the river he sat next to, tapping his fingers on his thigh.

Clear water turned brown and the tadpoles Crowley had been watching dart to and fro floated to the surface.

He had branched out, now, of course. Change necessitated it. Medical innovation and vaccine- which He was doing wonders on with superbugs, by the way- had slowed His operations to a standstill. So it wasn’t just humans He made sick anymore. And the planet didn’t have the benefit of being able to take antibiotics for Pollution.

Crowley blinked and swallowed thickly, before raising his elbow to cough into it. When he turned around he was faced with Pestilence. 

He looked like every cancer patient, sick and gaunt and dying. Like a doctor, with a long white coat. He still bore the cane of a plague doctor, and on His hands were black leather gloves. In His eyes was the greed of corporations and disregard for the planet, and when He spoke his voice was like sludge and black tar. “Mister Crowley.”

Crowley gave a small bow of his head. “Pestilence.” He rasped, before reaching up to rub at his throat.

Pestilence chuckled softly, tapping His cane on the ground. “You want my ring?” He knew to cut to the chase. Never was a fan of long, drawn-out processes unless it came to His work.

“Yes.” Crowley loosened his tie, eyes flickering red.

Pestilence nodded, smirking. “And what do you have to offer me, kiddo?”

The demon reached into his pocket for a handkerchief to cough into, and when he pulled it back there was blood. When he looked up Pestilence only gave a shrug, as if to say ‘what can I do’. It was just part of being around Him. “Halter on deals for medical research for five years.” Crowley said, wiping at his mouth. “And a rollback on environmental regulations in America.”

“Oh?” Pestilence smiled. “You know, you’re the first of your little gang to actually offer something. I respect that.”

Crowley wet his lips, nodding jerkily. “Thank you?”

“Don’t.” Pestilence turned His ring and Crowley buckled to his knees.

The demon groaned and clutched at his stomach, panting heavily. This was it. He was going to die like this, wasn’t he?

“Oh, I won’t kill you. I just want to see you  _ squirm _ .”

Crowley whimpered, brow sheened in sweat as he kicked his feet, leather shoes turning up clods of mud from the riverbank.

“Then I’ll give you my ring, if you ask nicely.”

Crowley retched, blinking rapidly as he felt blood drip down from the corners of his eyes, hot and wet and sticky. “Please-“ He rasped, fisting his hands in the sawgrass.

“Oh, not yet. Though you do beg pretty.” Pestilence jabbed the tip of His cane into Crowley’s side and watched as he vomited, heaving out bile stained red with blood.

Pestilence and Famine were nowhere near as old as War and Death, and their brutality showed it. They had been spawned with Adam and Eve’s exile from the garden. But War and Death were eternal.

Crowley clawed at the ground, letting out low moans and whines of pain. He struggled to reach down and unbutton the tip buttons of his shirt. After what felt like hours it all stopped. Crowley still felt weak, and awful, but there was no more blood. What was he supposed to do? “Please.” He whimpered. “Please.”

“There’s a good boy.” The ring fell to the ground beside Crowley’s head, and Pestilence was gone.

Asmodeus resented the fact that Michael had sent not one, but  _ two  _ angels along with him. He could do his own damn job, thank you very much.

At least one of them was tolerable. But Asmodeus so very much wanted to smash the angel of Thursday’s face in with a brick. Repeatedly.

“An’ you’re certain He’ll be... _ here _ ?” It didn’t scream famine, not really. It was a tiny stretch of urban-ish town home to one convenience store and a whole lot of poverty.

“Oh, they’re not starving, but that doesn’t mean they’re not dying of malnutrition.” Balthazar hummed. “What, you think fast food and processed shit is enough to keep a human running? No, if He was anywhere I’d say he was in a place like this.”

Castiel only said nothing, only looking curiously around the empty street. “Perhaps a summoning would be the best way to go?”

Asmodeus paused, tapping his foot. “Suppose we could give it a shot. Ain’t gonna hurt to try.” He reasoned, leading the way into an abandoned, boarded up shop.

With the copper bowl placed on the floor and Asmodeus and Castiel each searching in a book for a spell, Balthazar summoned a decanter of scotch to hand.

He poured himself a glass and downed it, clearing his throat.

Asmodeus glanced up. “Lil early in the morning, isn’t it?” He smirked, arching a brow.

Balthazar simply shook his head, pouring himself another glass and wetting his lips. “Buzz off.”

Asmodeus paused. “Put that summoning away, Castiel. I don’t think we’re alone anymore.”

When the door swung open Balthazar dropped the glass and it shattered on the floor.

Famine was far from the frail thing they expected. He looked like a glutton- round around the edges with sunken in, beady eyes and thinning hair.

Balthazar let out a choked whimper, hands shaking.

Castiel took a wary step back, while Asmodeus stood his ground.

Famine said nothing, only looking at the angel until he dropped to the ground, eyes frantic as he tried to lick the spilled drink from the floor, cutting his vessel’s tongue on the glass and bringing tears to his eyes.

“Balthazar-“ Castiel spoke, reaching a hand out before Asmodeus held him back.

“Famine. It’s...a pleasure, hm?” Asmodeus spoke, eyes flashing yellow.

Famine carefully sat down at a table, humming. “Funny little angel you’ve got here. Normally it’s the cravings of the vessel I take hold of. But he has his own...lust for drink.” He said. His voice rasped like hot grease dripping into water. He finally looked up. “Asmodeus and...Castiel, yes?” He tapped his fingers on the table, ring glinting in the low light coming from between the boards on the door and windows.

“Yes, we-“

“Oh, that’s a dangerous want you have, Asmodeus.”

“We’ll be needin’ it for Lucifer, and-“

“Oh, I’m not talking about the ring, you can have that when we’re done here. No...oh, that’s worse than taking in demon blood is for a human.”

Asmodeus froze in place, mouth suddenly dry. “It was just one time.” He cleared his throat.

Castiel looked over at him. “What? What did you do?”

“And you felt so powerful, didn’t you? Felt like your old self again…” Famine summoned an angel blade to hand, twirling it and watching as Balthazar pushed himself to his feet and grabbed the decanter, wrapping his lips around the top of the bottle and tilting it up to drink. Amber liquid ran out over his lips and chin and his throat bobbed with each swallow.

Castiel’s eyes widened and he looked up at Asmodeus with a new fear and disgust.

Asmodeus closed his eyes, breath whistling out through his nose. “Just once,” He said again, voice breaking. 

“Come here. Take it. I’ll make sure they don’t die. You need it, don’t you?”

When Asmodeus opened his eyes again they were a sulfuric yellow and he stalked forwards, ripping the blade from Famine’s outstretched hand and moving to lunge at Castiel.

Castiel backed away before running for the exit, finding himself unable to fly.

He let out a pained cry as Asmodeus tackled him to the ground, writhing underneath the demon as his face betrayed the first genuine emotion Asmodeus had seen on his face. Fear.

“No- Asmodeus, please, don’t-“ Castiel grunted as Asmodeus dragged the tip of the blade across his throat and wrapped his lips around the wound. “No, no, please, no-“ He whimpered.

Asmodeus groaned out in pleasure, feeding hungrily before he pulled back, eyes flashing blue. His mouth and beard were wet with blood and he dragged his fingers across Castiel’s throat, sealing the would in their wake.

Castiel slumped today the floor, curling into a small ball and quivering as he clung to the last scraps of grace he had.

Asmodeus stood, arching his back as if he were spreading the wings that had long since burned away. 

He advanced on Balthazar, who Famine had long since hooked up with a few dozen bottles of scotch.

Balthazar barely moved as Asmodeus approached, eyes dulled and unfocused as he drank greedily.

He only whimpered when the angel blade was dragged across his throat, and he actually tilted his head back obediently for Asmodeus, far more concerned with other things.

When he finished Asmodeus slumped back onto the floor, eyes flickering between blue and yellow as he basked in the glory of his pilfered grace.

Famine let them alone for a few more minutes. Castiel crying in the corner, Balthazar downing what must have been his tenth bottle of scotch, and Asmodeus laying back.

He removed his ring and set it on the table, before walking out without a word.

“Michael.” Castiel breathed, clawing at his throat. “Please. Help us.”


	22. Chapter Twenty Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Michael comes to Castiel’s aid, and Crowley is dealing with the very tangible side effects of speaking to Pestilence and bearing his ring, even for a short while.
> 
> Chapter specific tags: effects of magical rings kinda suck (not a LOTR rip off I swear), sickness, Lucifer sucks

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shit, I turned the rings into rings of power. Oh well. A little Tolkien never hurt anyone, right? I’m sorry for the short chapter, but I know what ends up happening to Crowley is going to take up a lot of space and I didn’t want it to be too overwhelming.
> 
> I hope you enjoy!

Michael looked down as a ring with a ruby red stone appeared on his finger, and he froze when he heard Castiel pray. No, it can’t have gone poorly so soon, they can’t have failed already.

When he appeared in the abandoned restaurant he froze. Balthazar was passed out drunk, Castiel was curled in the corner, and Asmodeus was staring up at something only he could see. Michael picked up the ring on the table and paused when he looked, really looked at the trio. It took him a second to realize what must have happened.

He reached for his archangel blade before pausing and allowing himself a moment of thought. He slipped off war’s ring because that had certainly contributed to the rush of rage.

Asmodeus mustn’t have been able to help it. That was the only reasonable explanation. If Famine could affect Balthazar it could certainly affect him.

He made the decision to help the two angels under his charge and leave Asmodeus to help himself. 

He stopped down over Castiel and offered him a hand. “You will be alright.” He promised, so sure of himself. “Heaven will hasten your recovery.” 

“Thank you.” Castiel breathed, voice broken and scared as he stumbled to his feet. “Thank you, thank you-“

He staggered, slumping against Michael as he lifted Balthazar as well and flew the three of them to heaven to rest and reflect. 

In his office he looked down at the ruby red ring, once again on his finger. Pestilence’s he’d already sent down to Alastair, but he almost didn’t have the heart to send this one down. 

He ran his finger over the stone and hummed to himself, watching it glint in the light from the lamp. It was beautiful in its own terrible way. He found himself not wanting to part with it. The same fire and anger that burned in his grace was reflecting back at him.

Why should they have to sneak around? He should go down to Hell directly. He should kill Lucifer, he didn’t deserve the mercy of the cage. He should enact his father’s plan once and for all and then maybe He would come back, after Michael waged war for him. He’d done it before, why shouldn’t he now?

Michael ripped the ring off of his finger and threw it to the other side of the room. He felt tears streaming down his face, and he reached up to grip at the sides of his head. He sent the ring down to Alastair. It was far too tempting, and he hated the thoughts that poured into his head like thick molasses over porridge.

Dean walked into the hall of records and frowned. “Dude, you look like shit.”

Crowley had cleaned up his suit and taken a long shower, but after his encounter with Pestilence he still looked haggard and sickly. He coughed into his elbow and shook his head. “You can shove it right up your ass, Dean. What do you need?”

Dean thumped Alastair’s book on the table. “I can’t read it anymore.”

Crowley arched a brow and flipped it open to where Dean dog-eared it, face one of exasperation because he had told Dean time and time again not to do that, but...he looked down at the words on the page. 

“I’m surprised you got through over a year of what Lucifer did to him.” He hummed, reading a quick passage and shuddering. He groaned before taking out his handkerchief and sneezing into it,

“I didn’t know demons could get sick.” Dean took a step back, because whatever Crowley had didn’t look fun.

“They can’t, not usually.” Crowley grunted, clearing his throat. 

“Then how did you do it?”

Crowley sighed and scrubbed his hands over his face. “I tried to open a cursed box in storage while I was doing inventory.”

He’d even made a cursed box as evidence just in case Lucifer or someone else with actual authority followed the same line of questioning.

“Man, you should know better than that. Your mom was a freakin’ witch.” Dean chuckled, shaking his head. “Feel better.”

“I’m trying. Now get.” Crowley shooed him out, hefting up the book and walking down the aisle so he could put it away.

“Cursed box, huh?”

Crowley jumped and dropped the book, eyes going wide. “Lucifer.” He took a step back, looking up at the archangel behind him.

“Part of me wants to believe that, Crowley. But part of me has been suspicious for months, and that’s the kind of sickness you get from meddling with things you shouldn’t, isn’t it?”

Crowley swallowed thickly, throat going dry.

“So either you went deep,  _ deep  _ into storage, or you’ve been palling around with Pestilence. Now…why would you do that, hm?” Lucifer arched a brow. “Unless you were looking for his ring, and there’s only one reason you’d need to use that.” His tone grew dangerous, the soft words of white anger. And that was more terrifying than anything.

“Lucifer- what the bloody hell are you talking about?” Crowley coughed, screwing his eyes shut. He was so incredibly thankful he could brush his nervous sweats and shaking off as part of...whatever this illness was.

“And if you’re telling the truth, I suppose we’ll be able to find that out too. Come on. Put that book away, get up. You’re coming with me.”

Crowley’s eyes widened in realization. “No- Lucifer, please.”

“Oh, you can beg all you want, Crowley.” Lucifer smirked, eyes flashing red. “You just need to understand that I don’t care. You and I are going to have some fun together.”

He grabbed Crowley by the collar of his shirt and they disappeared from the hall of records together.


	23. Chapter Twenty Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is a bit heavier, just because warned. Lucifer interrogates Crowley.
> 
> Chapter specific tags: Lucifer really really sucks, poor Crowley, torture, rape, castration

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hoo boy, this was tough to write. Hope y’all enjoy!

“So here’s what I’m thinking. You, and a few other demons are planning an uprising. Have been for a while. You’ve finally made the last step to fetch the keys for my cage, and you have Pestilence’s ring stashed somewhere. Right?”

“You’re paranoid.” Crowley shook his head. So far nothing had happened aside from Lucifer roughing him up on the way to this cell where he was sat behind and cuffed to a table. “I told you, it was a cursed object. I can go get it for you.” He coughed, sniffing and reaching up to rub at his bloody nose.

“We’re gonna chat, first.” Lucifer said firmly, bracing his hands on the table in front of Crowley. “Because honestly? Buddy, this has been a long train coming. Whether you’re lying or not, you need to be reminded of your place.” He summoned a pitcher to hand and poured a glass of water. He placed it in front of Crowley. “Drink.”

“What’s the point of this?”

“Drink.”

Crowley sighed heavily and took the glass, lifting it up to his lips. It burned and he tossed it aside, glass shattering on the floor. Holy water. It felt so repellant, so wrong against Crowley, it was like the explosion of water against hot oil. They didn’t mix so fundamentally it burned like fire, like acid.

The glass appeared in front of him again.

“Now, Crowley, don’t be impolite. Don’t make a mess this time.” Lucifer hummed, leaning against the wall and tapping his lip. “Drink.”

“I can’t.” Crowley coughed, wiping at his lips and wincing. 

“Oh, you can. If you put your mind to it.”

Crowley stared down at the glass and grit his teeth, picking it up and trying to down it in one go. Water spilled down from the corners of his lips and sizzled as it made red tracks in his skin. He did finish, just barely, before he slumped and coughed up foamy blood onto the table.

“Did you go to Pestilence?” Lucifer asked, pouring another glass.

“No.” Crowley rasped.

Lucifer nodded slowly. “Drink.”

Crowley cleared his throat, hacking up more blood and closing his eyes for a few seconds. When his eyes flashed red it was a watery, sickly looking color.

Lucifer waited a few seconds before he picked up the glass and dumped it over Crwoely’s head.

The demon screamed, struggling against his bonds and trying to stand from the chair his legs were lashed to. He shook his head from side to side, gasping like a fish as welts and burns appeared on his cheeks. With dawning realization, he watched as the pitcher refilled. Lucifer poured him another glass. “Drink.”

Crowley groaned, hands shaking as he took the glass. This time he took measured sips, hiccuping and coughing up blood every few. His throat was raw, and he felt the liquid twisting and burning the whole way down. When he finished the glass tears sprung to his eyes and he hacked, using his hands to brace himself on the table as he retched.

“Good boy. Do you have Pestilence’s ring?”

“No.” And, blessedly, the water in the pitcher didn’t refill. When Lucifer poured him his next glass it was now a third of the way full.

“Drink.”

Each swallow was a struggle, he felt it burning his throat, melting it, tearing it to pieces. When he coughed he saw chunks of flesh and pieces of lung in the blood. 

“Are you planning a coup?”

Crowley could only shake his head, tears streaming down his face.

“What was that, Crowley? I didn’t hear you.”

“No.” Crowley wheezed, spitting a glob of blood onto the table and shaking as Lucifer poured him another glass. The pitcher was half full.

“Drink.” 

And Crowley must have taken too long to pick up the glass because the pitcher refilled and Lucifer snatched it from his hands and dumped it on his lap.

Crowley howled, the sound wet and gurgling as he thrashed, eyes slipping shut.

“Did you go to Pestilence?”

They went on for over a day. Crowley was steadfast in ‘no’ as an answer to all of Lucifer’s questions, and Lucifer kept finding ways to fault him and start the process over again.

By the end of it Crowley was stripped naked (marking more places for a Lucifer to pour the water) and his chest and chin were coated in his own blood, which now lazily streamed from his parted lips. 

He looked like he’d been in a house fire, or a chemical accident, with his skin raised in oozing lesions and burns.

Crowley blinked slowly, straining to look up at Lucifer.

“Are you planning to overthrow me?”

“No.” Crowley breathed, voice barely above a hoarse whisper. 

“If you're going to act like a disobedient bitch, Crowley, I’m going to treat you like one.” Lucifer grabbed Crowley by the scruff of his neck and yanked him out of the chair, tossing him to the floor.

Crowley groaned, panting and doubling over as he clutched at his stomach.

“Come on, puppy. We’re going to the kennel.”

Crowley’s eyes widened and he tried to struggle to his feet. “No- Lucifer, please-“ He rasped, frantic. “Please. Don’t-“

“Then tell me the truth. What did you do?”

Crowley sobbed, coughing. “Taking inventory in storage. It was a cursed box, Lucifer, honest, please-“

“That’s not good enough for me.”

They appeared in a room with rows of cages (to keep the puppies in so as to disincentivize more ruthless hounds from eating their own young). Crowley shook his head, once again struggling to his teeth before Lucifer shoved him to the ground.

His ears were assaulted by the baying and growling of the hellhounds at Lucifer’s presence.

Juliet, god bless her, was still in Crowley’s quarters. He could thank god or whatever was lookin out for him for that.

Lucifer crouched down behind Crowley and palmed at his flaccid cock. “Good little bitches don’t exactly have this toolset, though, do they?”

Crowley closed his eyes and hit his tongue, every fiber of him telling him to plead and beg and just tell the damn truth so he wouldn’t have to do this.

“That’s right. They don’t. And you want to be good for me, don’t you Crowley?”

“Nh-“ Crowley grunted. “Yes, Lucifer.”

“I’m your king.” Lucifer reminded, humming.

“...Yes, my king.”

“Good boy.” Lucifer ruffled Crowley’s hair and chuckled, waving his hand. A table appeared in the center of the room. “Ordinarily I’d want to band it, but...well, I’m in a bit of a rush.” He hummed, yanking Crowley to his feet and throwing him onto the table, strapping him in with a thought.

The leather straps rubbed Crowley’s already burned wrists and ankles raw and he pressed back as far as he could, shaking his head as Lucifer picked up a scalpel.

“Last chance, puppy. Just tell me what you’re planning.”

Crowley closed his eyes, chest shuddering as he breathed in slowly and tears streamed down his face. “Nothing.”

He almost didn’t register the pain at first as Lucifer made the first slice across the base of his penis.

Then he screamed, arching his back up off the metal table. “No- no- god, please, no-“

Lucifer ignored him, humming and tapping his foot. He made shallow slices, taking far too much time to have fun with it. When he finished he held up the offending organ as if to inspect it before he tossed it to the floor. The hounds were on it in an instant, fighting over the fresh meat.

Crowley sobbed, jerking and shuddering and sluggishly trying to struggle.

“Now, this last bit is gonna hurt a hell of a lot more.” Lucifer warned, smirking. “Ready?” And before Crowley could even say no he made a quick, rough slice.

Crowley  _ screeched _ , arching up off the table. The sound was inhuman, echoing around the stone walls of the room before he slumped back down, gagging and turning his head to vomit up a mess of blood and his own flesh.

Lucifer smeared his hand across the bloody wounds to heal them, leaving smooth but blood covered skin in his wake. “There we go. Perfect.” He praised, and Crowley shook his head, jerking when Lucifer released him from his bonds.

Lucifer shoved him off of the table and he barely caught himself on his hands and knees, quivering.

“You get on your feet and I take them. Stay on your hands and knees, and be an obedient little bitch for your new friends.” Lucifer said, leaning down to run his bloodied fingers through Crowley’s hair. “I bet you’ll have something to say after a few weeks.” He disappeared.

Crowley was at least a little fortunate in this awful situation. He knew the hounds better than any other demon, and could at least keep himself from being torn to pieces. That wasn’t the torture here, though, and he knew it.

His breath came out in short, wheezing pants and he allowed himself to collapse, tears streaming freely down his face. 

After a while, though, the hounds grew curious. Pawing at him, sniffing at him.

Crowley forced himself back to his hands and knees and kept his eyes averted. 

What Lucifer had wanted came faster than expected. 

Crowley braced himself against the first lick of a wet tongue across his bare groin and hole, shaking as he held himself up.

His chest and face slammed against the floor when he was mounted and he grunted, groaning softly as he just barely managed to hold his hips up. 

He didn’t have the will to fight back. Not when the hound bit down on his shoulder, not when it tried to force its cock inside.

He did scream. It felt like he was being split open, rent in two. He clawed weakly at the floor, letting out hoarse Hells and cries as he was breached.

Pounded fast, so quickly and roughly for so long, it felt like hours before a knot was finally shoved inside his ruined hole and he was pumped so full of cum he felt he would burst. He sobbed, his heart felt like it was in a vice, breath coming quick and panicked until he was hyperventilating.

He was glad he got half an hour before the hound pulled out. But now that he had staked his claim, the rest wanted a turn.

Over and over again, and each time somehow made him feel more violated. There was no blind acceptance or resignation, every painful second was terrible and he felt disgusting. They just kept going. Biting and licking and fucking and ruining.

When Crowley got his few breaks from the onslaught he collapsed into a puddle of blood and vomit and cum and curled into a tight ball, shaking as he awaited his next brutalization.

Alastair sighed as he looked down at Asmodeus. “All we can do for the moment is wait until Crowley’s back in the game and you come down from your high.”

Asmodeus shook his head, leaning back against the wall. “Crowley’s gonna talk. You know it.”

“He’s more resilient than you know.” Alastair hummed. “He hates Lucifer so much that he can put aside being a coward. We’re safe, for now.”

Asmodeus sighed, scrubbing his hands over his face.

“You should be glad Michael didn’t smite you.”

“I know.” Asmodeus sighed heavily, shoulders slumping. “Call me when Crowley’s back on his feet. I need to spend some time on earth.”

“Take all the time you need.” 


	24. Chapter Twenty Four

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An unexpected party makes a quick appearance, and Crowley starts the slow road to recovery.
> 
> Chapter specific tags: rape, aftermath of rape, Alastair is a Good Guy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m sorry about how brutal the last chapter was, and I can’t promise there won’t be more like it. Sorry.
> 
> But I hope you enjoy what’s here if you’ve stuck around this long

Crowley jerked weakly when the door swung open. The only noise he could produce was a low whine coupled with a wheezing sigh.

“Oh, you poor thing. Did a number on you, huh?”

Crowley’s brow furrowed and he struggled to push himself up to his hands and knees before crying out in pain. 

He earned a sympathetic wince from… “Who? Who are you?” He rasped out. The light from the door made it hard to see, he couldn’t see.

“That doesn’t matter. Here-“ Crowley flinched back as a hand was placed on his chest before he let out a sigh of relief. He could breathe properly for the first time in weeks, he didn’t feel sick. And his hips were back in their proper places.

“I can’t get your...the rest of you. Er- sorry. He’d know something was up then. Um- sorry.” And then as soon as the mystery man was there, he was gone.

Crowley was left confused as anything, but eternally thankful. “The bloody hell was’at?” He let himself fall back to the floor and closed his eyes.

It was mere minutes later that Lucifer walked in and crouched down behind Crowley to inspect the damage. He whistled. “Ready to talk, puppy?”

Crowley closed his eyes before he nodded. “Yes. Yes.” He breathed.

“Good.” Lucifer’s eyes glinted and, using the fact he was out of Crowley’s view to his advantage, summoned his angel blade to hand. 

“It was a cursed box in storage. I’m sorry- m’sorry. Shouldn’t have gone back there, I’m sorry- please-“ Crowkey whimpered.

Lucifer clenched his jaw and sheathed his blade. “Oh, it’s alright. You’ve done your due penance.” He hummed. “I’m going to let you go, but this?” His hand shot out to grab Crowley’s crotch, earning a soft whine. “Stays. Put your johnson back with magic and I’ll make this…” He rubbed his thumb over the smooth, hairless skin. “Permanent.”

Crowley nodded jerkily, fresh tears streaming down his cheeks. “Thank you.” His voice broke. 

Lucifer smirked and helped Crowley to his feet. He watched as the demon staggered to brace himself against the wall. “Can you do something, for me?”

Crowley nodded, closing his eyes and dreading Lucifer’s next words.

“When I call, you come. To do anything. No matter the time.”

“Anything, yes, please.” Crowley was shaking, pressing his thighs together.

“Suck my cock.”

Crowley was struck dumb for a second. “I- what?”

Lucifer hummed. “You heard me. Get on your knees, and suck my cock.”

Crowley let out a choked sob and let himself fall to the ground in front of Lucifer. At this point he just wanted it to be over. The humiliation, the shame, it was almost worse than the lingering pain he still felt. He leaned forward and with shaking hands, unzipped Lucifer’s fly. He pulled out the archangel’s hard cock and swallowed thickly, throat bobbing as he leaned in and wrapped his lips delicately around the tip.

“Mm, good boy. Just like that.” Lucifer praised, and somehow, it made it worse.

Crowley gripped at Lucifer’s thighs support and plunged down on his member, licking and sucking and fighting so desperately the anger and urge to bite down and tear.

When Lucifer came he swallowed, still sucking because he didn’t want to put himself into any more jeopardy.

Lucifer shoved him back. “Get back to your post. There’s a backlog.” And then he too, was gone.

Crowley slumped down and groaned, hands landing in a puddle of cum. After a few dazed seconds, he appeared in his own little corner of hell. Essentially a high rise apartment with a slight lean towards gothic themes. He clambered into the claw footed tub and curled up on his side, falling asleep before he even got to turning the water on.

Twenty four hell-hours and a steaming bath later, Crowley was back to sorts. At least, he looked like he was. He was still sore, and haggard, and no matter how much he drank his mouth still tasted like Lucifer’s cum.

He did go to the meeting, though. He appeared in the meeting room, fixing his tie and putting on the calm, suave face he always had.

When Asmodeus walked in he struggled to keep it up, and when Alastair came he broke, shoulders slumping as he looked down at the table.

“Hello, Crowley.” Asmodeus greeted, summoning a bottle of bourbon to hand. “Drink?”

“Not that.” Crowley shook his head. “No. Thank you.” He scrubbed his hands over his face before he slid a box across the table to Alastair. “The ring.”

Alastair pocketed it and hummed. “Did you talk?” He had to ask.

“No. I almost wish I did.” Crowley scrubbed his hands over his face. “It-“

“You don’t need to talk ‘bout it in front of us.” Asmodeus shook his head. “We’ve both borne Lu’s idea of a fair punishment, don’t need remindin’.”

“If you do want to be looked at, I can offer some help. Healing.” Alastair offered.

“...Please.”

“We can put this discussion off until tomorrow. Come on.” Alastair stood. 

The pair departed together, to Alastair’s chambers.

“Could you strip down and get up on the rack for me?”

Crowley must have made a face, because Alastair chuckled.

“I won’t hurt you anymore than you already have been. Just want to get a good look.” He said, turning away to fix something on his shelf and give Crowley a semblance of privacy as he stripped down.

Crowley half expected Alastair to stare and laugh when he turned around, to tell Crowley he wouldn’t be any help because he deserved what he got.

He was met with something entirely different. Concern. 

Alastair frowned before nodding slowly. “Alright, sit on up there for me.” He said, gesturing for Crowley to get a move on.

The younger demon did as asked, thighs pressed together.

Alastair places his hands in his knees and arched a brow. “May I?”

“Whatever you need.” Crowley allowed Alastair to spread his legs and let out a shaky breath. “When did you get so soft?”

“Why would I need to be hard on a friend?” Alastair asked, raising a hand as if to touch and once again looking at Crowley for permission. He simply nodded.

“This is some very clean work.” Alastair hummed, running two fingers over the smooth skin. “Now, how attached are you to normal bodily functions?”

“Not at all.”

“Good.” Alastair paused before his jaw ticked. “Oh, he- absolutely no restraint. Legs up.” He guided Crowley to lie down and out his feet on the table.

“No shame at all about it. Time and time again-“ Alastair shook his head.

“What?”

“He ordered this?”

Crowley closed his eyes. “Yes.” His voice dropped to a softer tone.

“I’m sorry.” 

Crowley furrowed his brow. “Sorry? Sorry? Why the bloody hell are you sorry, Alastair? It’s my fault.”

“It’s disgusting, that’s what it is. Nowhere near your fault, either. You’ve got tearing, lots of bruises back here- Christ, Crowley, I should be sorry because if one of us was to go under it wasn’t supposed to be you.”

“Why? Because I’m weak?”

“Because you’re the one keeping this operation running and if we lost you the whole thing would go up in smoke. You must know that.”

“Doesn’t matter.”

Alastair clenched his jaw. “Get ahold of yourself. I will allow shame, and doubt, and resentment, but I will not stand to see you wallow in depression and self deprecation like this. I’ll heal you down here and try to work on your sickness, but-“

“I’m not sick.”

“That’s impossible. It was pestilence, you can’t recover from that in a week.”

“Someone healed me.”

Alastair’s brow creased. “Who? An angel? It must have been, most demons don’t have that power.”

“No, no wings. I don’t know who it was.” Crowley sighed heavily. “They came and they just disappeared. No wing beats, no sulfur.”

Alastair’s eyes flashed white for a second before he quelled his anger. “So He’s finally decided to make Himself known.”

“He? You say that like it’s-“

“No one else would be able to do that. Unless you pulled Apollo out of your ass, and something tells me you would have known who it was if it was him.”

“Why me?”

“...You know, I’ve absolutely no idea. Perhaps you should start praying.”

“Do you?”

“Mm. I do now.”


	25. Chapter Twenty Five

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things in hell are slowly drawing to a climax, but far too soon. Will Lucifer find the source of it all?
> 
> Chapter specific tags: poor Sam, poor Dean, poor Alastair, just angst, self harm

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short chapter again, sorry! Hope you like it

Alastair stared up at the chalkboard in his working quarters and shook his head. “Why him?” He asked. “Why?  _ I  _ want to see you,  _ I  _ have been waiting.  _ I  _ love you.” He clenched his jaw, before throwing the piece of chalk in his hand. It hit the board and broke, bouncing to the floor with a clatter. “What have I ever done wrong? Everyone here deserves what I do. Is it wrong that I enjoy it? Is that it? Then you’re a hypocrite, because I’ll be damned if you don’t enjoy the pain you see on earth every day. The perverse suffering, the war, the death, the rape and torture.” He spat. “It’s your fault. All of this. I wouldn’t be surprised if you knew what the mark would do to Lucifer. Did it make you happy to watch him fall? Or do you not watch anymore? I saw him streak across the sky and cry out for you. Where have you gone? Why the hell do you- you help  _ Crowley _ ? What about us? What about everyone else?” He didn’t know he was crying. He didn’t know his hands were balled into fists at his sides or that his eyes were white with righteous anger. “It’s not fair.”

Alastair was right. If life was fair, Chuck would have been there. And He would have apologized, and He would have looked at the tattered soul that was His proudest creation and He would see it was still good.

But He sat back on an overstuffed sofa in His human body in His human house and stared down at the words on His computer screen. He took another sip of whiskey that did nothing to dull His senses. “Oh, Adam.” He sighed, and fixed His glasses. “Soon. Soon. I promise. We just have to see how this pans out first.” He yawned and cracked His knuckles, before He got back to typing.

“Ol a-atra’ah congamphlgh de g, Ascha.” Sam read slowly, brow creasing. He sounded like a kindergartener struggling their way through their first picture book.

“Ah- what did I tell you, Sammy. Come on. Your soul isn’t god’s.”

“Sorry- sorry. Was just reading. Sorry.” Sam said quickly. “I’m sorry.”

“Jesus Christ, get a hold of yourself. Again. From the beginning of the psalm, please.”

Sam cringed and started reading again.

Lucifer corrected his pronunciation time and time again, his inflection, his tone. “It’s just not reverent enough, Sammy,” his enthusiasm. “Like you really mean it, come on, it’s not that hard. It’s melodic, isn’t it?”

And Sam didn’t know because he was just repeating what Lucifer had is the first time from memory. The symbols on the page meant nothing to him and he hated it, he was terrified Lucifer knew and that they’d start over with the lesson because Sam didn’t really know because he couldn’t think straight.

Lucifer sighed and shoved a different piece of paper in front of him. “There. That should be easier.”

Sam stared down at it and tears streamed down his face because nothing was ever easy. His brow creased and he reached up to tug and pull at his hair. “I-“

“That sounds suspiciously like it’s not going to be enochian.”

“I can’t.”

“What do you mean, you can’t? You were-“ Lucifer’s lips turned up in an ugly smirk. “You don’t know how. You little cheater.”

Sam cringed, pressing back and hugging his knees up to his chest. “M’sorry.”

“No, no, I’m impressed, really. I mean- you thought you could lie to me.” He laughed. “Looks like it’s back to notecards, hm?”

Sam heard the flick of the straight razor and let out a muffled scream, shaking his head frantically because  _ no no no not again please no I’m sorry please it hurts _

“Writing and route memorization. Neatly, if you wanna keep those fingers of yours.”

Sam took it and sniffled, tears streaming down from his eyes and snot from his nose. “I’m sorry.”

“Why?”

“I’m not perfect. I’m sorry.”

Lucifer sighed heavily. “Sometimes I think you’ll never be.” He said bitterly and Sam cringed.

“I can try, and-“

“Sure, you can try. Give it a good 110%. But you’re still human, black eyes and all. Disappointing. Weak. You’re nothing without me cruising around in that perky little noggin of yours.” Lucifer paused. “And don’t just agree with me. Prove it.” He took out another notecard and scrawled out something in enochian. “ _ Disappointing _ .” He spoke. “Now say it with me.”

“Good boy. Now write. Somewhere visible.” Lucifer handed over the blade.

Sam sobbed and carved into his arm. Disappointing. Noting. Pitiable. Small. Pathetic. Puppet. Human. The last one was the worst insult of all. And because of it, he’d never be able to help the rest.

Dean shook his head, sighing heavily. He knew he stashed his book somewhere, he just had to find… He pulled open the drawer and frowned, tilting his head to the side as he took out a small, ornate box. He flicked it open, expecting an antique thumbscrew or some shit like that...only to find four rings and a scrap of paper. “The fuck is this?  _ Bvtmon tabges Babylon, Beh voh _ -“ The floor shook and then Dean was ripped back, the box falling from his hands.

“Don’t.” Alastair growled. “Don’t- how  _ dare  _ you. Not only go through my things, take this out and read the bloody incantation? You lucky you didn’t get far enough for someone to notice. You idiot.” He said, eyes flashing white. All he’d worked for, all he’d risked, and this was what he got.

“I didn’t know-“

“That doesn’t matter.” Alastair hissed. “You shouldn’t have opened it in the first place. Are you that colossally stupid to think those words don’t mean anything? You must be.” Alastair raised a hand to slam Dean back against the wall. 

“I’m sorry. Al, come on, it was an honest mistake.”

“One that can get both of us killed. Brutally. Can lose me the chance of-“ Alastair clenched his jaw. “Mistakes can be costly. Especially ones born of you  _ touching things you shouldn’t _ . You’re going on the rack tonight. And oh, I can guarantee you won’t enjoy it.”

Alastair snatched the box back up from the floor and disappeared.

Lucifer had felt something. A tremor, that stirred deep in his core. He was caught between anger and few, because he couldn’t pinpoint it and he just knew it was the cage. “You can stop now, Sam.” He said quietly, face pale as he stood. “Put the razor away. We’re done for today.” He swallowed thickly, throat bobbing.


	26. Chapter Twenty Six

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is the end. And none of it is happy.
> 
> Chapter tags: major character death, self harm, cage angst

Michael let out a wavering sigh and looked at himself in the mirror. He looked tired. There were lines in his vessel’s face that hadn’t been there when Michael first took him. “We may die.” He said softly.

“I know.” Adam said after a short while. “I’m ready.”

Michael stood and picked up his lance, feeling its heft in his hands. “Good.” He breathed, still unsure for a few seconds until he tucked his archangel blade into his coat.

It was different battle armor than the first go around, but it was armor nonetheless. He parted his lips to speak again but silenced himself just as quickly.

“You can be scared. This is big.” Adam said softly. “It might not even work. Be scared here all you want. Just not out there. Not on the outside.”

And Michael smiled. Maybe this was why humans were better. No matter how hard they’d been beaten, or how much had been ripped from them or no matter the situation, they were fluid. They changed. And they almost always loved and showed care. “Thank you.” He fixed his jacket again and spread his wings, feathers like swords and spears and strong battle axes. Heaven’s most terrifying weapon. He really did look the part, hidden away inside of Adam.

Bright light, so bright, wrought with fire. Limbs and faces all shifting and changing, but what never changed were those great, powerful wings. A million eyes blinked down curiously at the soul nestled inside their shared body, and Michael spread his wings and flew.

“No- no, Alastair, please, I’m sorry-“ 

Alastair threw Dean against the rack. “You have no idea how lucky you are.” He hissed, before glancing at the clock on the wall. “Of course. Of course you’d wait until the last bloody second to royally screw up. Seeing as we’re short on time…” He grabbed what looked like a serrated melon baller from the tray and tossed it into Dean’s hands. “Do it yourself.” He said, before opening a hidden drawer and pulling out a sheathed sword. He pulled it out of the scabbard and holy flames danced across the surface. A gift from an old friend. He nodded his approval before he disappeared.

Dean stared, running his hands back through his hair. “Al- Alastair? What- don’t leave me here. I don’t know what I did wrong! Al!” He yelled after the demon, before looking down at the tool in his hand and letting out a low groan. He was going to be left alone. That was the punishment. 

He slowly lifted it, palm growing sweaty around the comfort-grip handle as he placed the edge just above his eye. He braced himself and screamed, collapsing to the floor. Blood covered his hand like a hot sheath and he still had to get the other one.

When he was done he was left curled up on the floor, sobbing weakly because he was alone and scared and he didn’t have the clearance to know what was happening. Not until it was over.

Crowley downed his last glass of scotch and cleared his throat, letting out a shaky sigh. Part of him just wanted to stay here and do nothing, to hide away forever. But he hated Lucifer more than he felt guilty and shameful. “Alright, girl.” He rasped, and ran soft fingers through Juliet’s coarse fur. 

She was the one hellhound who would obey him over Lucifer. He’d hand reared her, she’d been the runt of one of Ramsey’s litters. Crowley poured what tainted love he had, all of it went into her. And she’d surpassed the rest by leaps and bounds. It made Crowley wonder if that was the trick to raising them, because they had been intended as companions at first and they were relegated to hell’s soul collection and cleanup duty without a speck of love shown.

“Now, do you think mother’s magic will still work if an archangel’s the one who kills me?” Crowley asked, fingering the talisman in his pocket.

Juliet snuffed, nosing against his hand.

“Yeah, probably not. Worth a try.” He hummed, taking out an angel blade. “Anything is worth a shot at this point,” Crowley scratched behind her ears. “Come on. One last fight, eh?” He closed his eyes for a few seconds to steel himself before he disappeared, taking her along for the ride.

Stull. It always has to be Stull. Even for this not-apocalypse. Asmodeus whistled to himself, taking a silver flask out of his pocket and taking a long, long drink. He replaced it and cleared his throat, before crouching down. Careful not to brush his knees against the ground, because it had just rained the day before and the grass was damp and hiding thick mud underneath. As it was he’d already be having to get his shoes cleaned if he lived. All the years he served under Lucifer, all the failures and punishments and torture and corrupting if his grace...he wanted retribution. He wanted his wings back most of all, but seeing Lucifer suffer almost made up for it.

He crushed herbs in his fist and dropped them into the copper bowl before he struck a math, let out a soft breath, and dropped that in as well.

Time seemed to stretch out for ages in the time it took the match to drop, before it hit the ingredients piled in the bowl.

It smoldered for a second, flame of the match sputtering in the light wind before everything caught ablaze and shot up plumes of fire in a split second. Asmodeus stepped back and smirked to himself, eyes flashing yellow.

“Praeco lucis vocat te. Unde necesse est finis omnium, quo vestra falsa officium. Samael Luciferum vocavi te.” He spoke slowly in measured, even words. He refused to use an enochian summoning. It felt wrong on his tongue, familiar in an awful way in that it reminded him of who he was. He heard the sound of triplet wingbeats behind him and smirked. “Hiya, Lu. Good to see you again.” He hummed.

“Asmodeus. My one time, half wit crony. How’s things? Don’t tell me this is a revenge ploy, you can’t be that pathetic, can you?”

Asmodeus turned to face Lucifer, brows raised. “Things are good.” He thumbed lightly at the scars on his cheek. “And I wouldn’t call it pathetic. Why don’t you come a little closer, hm?”

Lucifer spread his into behind him, eyes flashing red. “It was you, wasn’t it? You have the rings.”

“Naw, I don’t. That’d be stupid. All I’m here to do is  _ distract  _ you.”

Lucifer’s eyes widened slightly and he just barely managed to jump to the side as Michael’s lance struck for him. “You bastard-“ He growled, wings as bright as the dawn and as cold and dangerous as ice arched up over his head. “Michael? You’re working with Michael? You little shit!”

“Hello, brother.” Michael bowed his head, twirling his lance in hand.

“Really?” Lucifer scoffed, unable to hide the nerves in his tone as he took out his blade. “You’re really doing this? What, what- you wanna kill me? Carry out daddy’s little plan? What a good soldier you are.”

“No. This isn’t for God, Lucifer.” Michael’s eyes blazed. “This is for me. This is for the kingdom you cannot run properly. You were never meant to be a king.”

Lucifer took on a defensive stance, eyes narrowed. “So I’m just meant to be dead, that’s it?”

“If it comes to that.”

Lucifer went to lunge at his brother before he was bowled to the ground and something was tearing at his throat. He screamed, throwing- a hellhound? “What the hell is all this?” He shouted, shoving himself to his feet and gripping at his bloodied throat.

“There’s a good girl, Juliet. Come back here.” Crowley hummed, grinning. “Hallo, Luci.”

Lucifer had to stay on his feet to keep all three of them in sight. Blood dropped down from his neck onto his shirt and he growled. “You never do learn, do you? I’m going to tear you limb from limb!” He was enraged, and he was scared. He knew he couldn’t get out of this one and he didn’t want to die, he didn’t want to be caged. “Why?” He asked, eyes flickering over to Michael.

“You desecrate your vessel. You tarnished mine. Your hell is ineffectual, it languishes, and you, Lucifer, do not deserve to have it. Stand down.”

Lucifer shook his head. “I won’t go in the cage. You’ll kill me. It’ll finally kill me. Michael, please-“ His voice broke and he looked like a scared child.

“This is final. This is necessary.”

“You deserve this. Look at what you’ve done to everyone around you. You’re a petulant child, Lucifer, and you didn’t finish your time in the corner.” Crowley grinned.

“You have no idea what it’s like. Please.” Lucifer begged, staggering back, wings twitching as if he wanted to fly away.

“I do.”

Lucifer whirled. “Alastair. Come on, I’ve done everything for you, I made you who you are. Don’t do this to me.”

“You took everything from me, Lucifer. My wife. My son. You made me less than human.” Alastair hummed and took out the rings, tossing them to the ground. “You deserve more than this.” He started chanting and the ground began to shake.

Lucifer lunged at him and Michael grabbed at the back of his shirt, yanking him back and trying to hold him.

Lucifer broke free when the ground split open to reveal the inky blackness below. He wrested Michael’s lance from his hands and driving it forwards blindly, trying to do anything. His face split into a manic smile when it plunged into Alastair’s stomach. He laughed, eyes lighting up as he gave a viscous twist.

Alastair grunted, eyes going wide as he gripped at the wooden pole. He coughed, blood spilling past his lips as he looked forwards, up at Lucifer. He staggered lightly, before clenching his jaw and ripping the point from his belly. He used the wooden end of the pole to shove Lucifer back.

The archangel staggered and tripped, falling back. The panicked scream that followed as he fell for the second time echoed for miles until the ground sealed up as if nothing had happened.

The clearing was silent for a few seconds, stunned into it, before Alastair fell, face down on the wet earth.

The rest of the group rushed into action. “Adam-“ Michael didn’t even have the heart to correct himself as he knelt down, frantic. “Come on, get up, you’re alright. You’re alright.”

And Alastair wheezed out a choked laugh, grinning up at Michael with blood stained teeth. “Shame you have to see this twice, isn’t it?”

His eyes drifted to see the rest of the group. “Just leave me here. It’s useless to try anything, that spear is a death sentence.”

“Lance.” 

“Oh, I’m sorry, Michael, where the-“ Alastair groaned. “Where the fuck is your horse if it’s a lance?”

And they laughed. Because what else was there to do, because the one demon who was supposed to be so hardened against everything was so important to the three others gathered around him.

The wound smoldered and Alastair lit up from the inside, orange dancing over his bones. He clawed weakly at Michael’s chest, breath coming in sharp, gasping pants as he did.

Crowley clenched his jaw and shook his head. He couldn’t bring himself to look away as Alastiar’s hands bunched in Michael’s jacket as tight as they could go before he fell limp, last breath shuddering out of his chest with a pained whine.

Michael shook his head, one hand resting on Alastair’s. “I...will take him.” He murmured.

Crowley swallowed thickly. “Who’s going to tell Dean?” He asked after a few seconds. Nobody had an answer for him.

Lucifer wailed. He drove his hands into the inky darkness, kicking and hitting at nothing before he collapsed and sobbed. He’d gotten out, he was finally out, and now he’d been betrayed. Again. It wasn’t fair, it was never fair to him. He beat his wings against the not-ground and gripped at the sides of his head, wishing for all the world that it was a dream. The barely mended cracks in his psyche were coming undone.

“I’m sorry.” He cried. He didn’t know why he was sorry, he didn’t think he’d done anything wrong. He didn’t think he ever had, not really. “I’m sorry, please, I- I’m sorry!” Tears were streaming down his face. “I didn’t know, I didn’t- I never knew, I’m sorry, please, just-“

He knew no one could hear him. And he thought God didn’t care. So he silenced himself while he clawed at his wings. The fall wasn’t why they were so damaged the first time. It was him. He’d done it to distract himself from the nothing of the cage. Pain and blood, grace spilled from his throat, from his belly.

He wanted to see them again. Like he did the first time. He didn’t care if they were cruel. He called for his father. He called for Gabriel, for Michael, for Raphael, for anyone. And no one ever came.

Eden was nowhere near as beautiful as it was. Heaven had sprung up around it. It was more a fenced in garden than anything else. It still had the tree, and it’s babbling brook filled with minnows. Peacocks strutted among the trees, and it was calm. Joshua watched over it now.

When Michael came it wasn’t to enjoy its peace or the joy that still thrummed in the air. He bore a broken body that should have been allowed back a long time ago.

There was a soft fluttering of wings. “Michael, why-“

“Help me bury him.”

“Is that-“

When Michael looked up his eyes were red and his cheeks were tracked with tears. “Help me bury him.”

They did. And when they were finished, Joshua planted hyacinths in the freshly tilled soil.

“Do you still talk to Him?”

“Sometimes I hear Him, yes.”

“Tell Him not to come back if this is what He allows to happen.” Michael spat, glaring down at the white blooms. “He doesn’t belong here if this is the fate of His children.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m not crying, you’re crying. *sniff*
> 
> I hope you enjoyed this story as much as I did. I am considering writing a brief epilogue, so stay tuned just in case, but...wow. This has been a rollercoaster. Let me know what you think of all this.


	27. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I hope this ties everything up nicely for you all. I just couldn’t resist giving a slightly happier end to the story!
> 
> Chapter specific tags: angst, are you crying? I’m crying, aftermath of death

“No. No, you’re lying. You’re lying, he can’t-“ Dean’s breath hitched and he held his hands over the bloody sockets of his eyes. “You’re lying, he can’t be dead. He’s not dead.”

“Dean…” Crowley sighed softly. “I’m sorry. Let me heal you-“

Dean shook his head, letting out a choked sob. “No. No, if he’s dead it’s my fault. I messed everything up, I deserve this. I’m sorry.”

“You didn’t ruin everything. Just let me heal you, we can talk.” Crowley said slowly. “Please, Dean. He wouldn’t want to see you like this, you know that.”

Dean sniffled, chest shaking and jerking with each choppy breath. He lowered his hands and flinched when he felt Crowley’s palm on his forehead.

When he could finally blink his eyes open they were wet with tears. He looked broken. If Alastair wasn’t there what was he? He wasn’t even a demon. “Can you tell me what happened?”

Crowley sighed. “We put Lucifer in the cage. He stabbed Alastair, and Alastair shoved him in.”

“What about Sammy?”

“Michael is working to help rebuild his mind.”

Dean blinked owlishly. “Michael? Like, the archangel?”

Crowley nodded and sighed heavily. “Yes.” He swallowed. “Are you going to be alright?”

Dean scoffed. “No.” He looked around the room and closed his eyes, fighting back more tears.

“I have an offer for you, if you’re willing to hear me.”

Dean looked up at Crowley. “Can you bring him back?” He croaked.

“No, Dean-“

“Then I don’t wanna hear it.” Dean shoved himself to his feet, breath whistling out through his nose. “Leave.”

“Dean.” Crowley said firmly. “I’ve inherited the throne. I want to offer you Alastair’s position. And I want to give you a way to visit his grave.”

Dean paused. “How the hell did a punk as demon like you get the throne?” He managed a small chuckle, but it was wet and broken sounding. “Please. To both.”

Crowley nodded, reaching out to take Dean’s hand. “Walk with me.” He said softly. His face was kind and his eyes were sad, and Dean saw he was in the same pain he was. Just to a lesser extent.

Dean clasped Crowley’s hand in his and used his sleeve to wipe at his eyes. 

They walked down a hall and through a narrow passage up a large flight of stairs. The door at the top opened in front of Crowley and there was  _ light _ . Not the bleakness of hell, that sickly red glow that Dean had learned to love, but the sun. A blue sky. Green grass that might as well have been neon.

Dean shielded his eyes and cried out softly, staggering back and screwing his eyes shut.

Crowley looked at him curiously for a moment before he realized that in all these thousands of years Dean had never left hell. He pulled a pair of sunglasses out of his breast pocket and pressed them into Dean’s hands.

Dean hastily pulled them over his eyes, hands shaking. “It’s beautiful.” He murmured.

“It’s just Earth.” But it never was. Tastes of Eden could be found anywhere. It was in pure water and clear skies, in how dew tipped each blade of grass as if placed methodically. It was in ground furrowed by worm and root, it was in the knots and whorls of trees. Dean was right. It was so incredibly beautiful, it was perfect even with streets marring stone and earth, even with skyscrapers reaching for the heavens like a new Babel. We’re just so used to it that we think earth’s beauty is hidden away in unexplored corners and hidden caves that we fail to realize it’s right under our noses.

Dean shook his head because it was impossible to explain. His gaze landed on another man- no, being. Dean had never seen a human hold themselves so perfectly. He looked so oddly familiar. Wearing a faded army jacket and blue jeans, and a ruby red ring on his index finger. “Who are you?” Dean asked.

“Michael.” Michael bowed his head. “It is good to finally meet you in person, Dean.”

Dean nodded slowly, throat bobbing. “I’m your vessel, right?”

Michael nodded again.

“Then, uh, no offense, but why hasn’t that guy exploded?” 

Michael’s lips bowed up into a tiny smile. “He’s your brother.”

Dean stared for a second rather than denying it outright, and his shoulders slumped under the weight of disappointment. “Was he a hunter?” He asked, and that was so much crushing pain and disappointment in one day he felt like he would collapse because the only person who’d cared for him and loved him and helped him for the past however goddamn long was gone, and now he knew he had a brother that Dad and run off and had. That must have been where he’d gone on those hunts he was foggy on explaining, no details.

“No.” Michael admitted, and his smile fell when he saw Dean’s reaction. “It is best not to dwell too long on it.”

Dean let out a wavering breath and scrubbed his hands over his face under the sunglasses. “You’re helping Sammy?”

“I’m doing my best. There’s no guarantee he’ll fully recover. But yes. That’s not why you’re here, though, is it?”

“I want to see him.” Dean said, voice losing any semblance of okay-ness it had gained.

Michael nodded and held out a hand to Dean. When Dean took it it felt like it fit, Michael’s touch felt electric.

In a second they were gone, leaving Crowley on earth. Demons didn’t exactly belong in heaven.

If Dean was marveling at earth, Eden was too much. He fell to his knees, taking off his glasses. Tears of wonder mixed with tears of grief streamed down his face. His pupils were dilated to pinpricks and the green of his eyes was like a crisp apple. “This is heaven?” He breathed, breath catching in his throat. “It’s beautiful.”

Michael nodded, placing a hand on his shoulder. “It used to all be like this.” His thumb rubbed a slow circle against Dean’s shoulder.

Dean nodded. “You finally let him back up here, huh? That’s kinda shitty.” He muttered. “He shoulda been able to see it again.”

Michael sighed. “I know.”

“I don’t think he ever stopped wanting to come back.”

“I know. He didn’t.”

“He deserved better.”

“He did.”

“Where is he?”

Michael nodded to a patch of hyacinths and calla lilies. They were blooming beautifully, vibrantly. 

Fresh tears sprung to Dean’s eyes and he walked over to kneel in front of it. His vision grew hazy and the flowers turned into a blurry mess of white and purple and green. He pressed his hands and head to the soil and sobbed weakly, finally letting himself properly cry. He said nothing, only letting his emotions pass through him like a whirlwind. He lay there for hours, until his tears dried and the moon shone overhead and bathed the garden in silver.

When he got up his face was red and puffy from crying, but his eyes were drying. “Take me back.” He murmured.

“If you want to come again just pray to me.” Michael said, taking Dean’s hand in his once again. His wings beat down and they were back on earth, in front of the door to hell. Dean wondered if any lost soul had found it and just disappeared into the night, free from the torments of hell.

Crowley had ended up sitting on the concrete outside what looked like the entrance to some underground bunker. He looked up and gave a tired wave. “Took you long enough.” He said jokingly, grunting as he stood. “Do you want the position?”

“Yes.” Dean nodded, glancing back at Michael. “Don’t think anyone else would be as good as him.”

“You’re very right.” Crowley opened the door and beckoned Dean inside.

“Can I come up? If I want to?”

“So long as you’re still getting work done.” Crowley gave a soft hum, nodding as Dean stepped in. He gave Michael a grateful smile and walked in after him, pulling the heavy door closed. “I’ll need some help from you with something, first…”

It was a few days later, and the air was heavy. “I...am your king now.” Crowley said. He stood up at the top of the throneroom, Asmodeus by his right side and Dean at his left.

“For those of you who don’t know, Lucifer has been caged. I am the rightful heir, and I will be enacting several changes as pertaining to the way of things down here. I will rule for 250 years to work on infrastructure and planning, and then we will switch over to holding elections.”

There was murmuring spread throughout the crowd. Most in favor, some hesitant. Many eyes were fixed on Asmodeus.

“I represent both myself and my brothers when I say we support Crowley in his endeavors.” Asmodeus said, tapping his fingers on the back of the throne. “He is your king. Not any of us.”

Crowley nodded. “Thank you.” He said, before continuing on. “Torture will be changed. Those of you who work in that sector have been given the information already. Many of you will be outsourced to collection and deals, those of you who remain will work under Dean. He will take Alastair’s position and you will afford him the same respect as the previous Prime, regardless of his humanity.”

Dean nodded, lips set in a grim line.

“When Sam finishes going through withdrawal and training, he will take my position in leading deals and working the hall of records. Let me be very clear when I say you will not take any revenge or retribution for anything he did under Lucifer’s reign. His actions weren’t his own. In fact, if any of you take any action against the Winchesters, you will have to answer to me directly for punishment.” He waited a few moments for that to sink in. 

“Change is hard. But here, now, it is necessary. I’m sure there will be many bumps in the road ahead, but we will deal with them when we get there. Hell shouldn’t be a climate of fear for demons. Those who have served their time on the rack and become something other. Lucifer’s rule was tyranny. And I hope we don’t fall into anything like that again.”

Crowley would end up to rule for several thousand years. Demons liked the changes he made, they liked the way he thought. Demons rarely ran against him in elections, not out of fear of retribution but out of respect.

Sam and Dean lived together in what was Alastair’s flat. Dean gained reputation as a fearsome torturer of the same caliber of Alastair, perhaps even surpassing him, as well as being someone to talk to and at times, a shoulder to cry on.

Sam was accepted better than anyone had expected, and he excelled with being able to learn and grow at his own pace. Dean wasn’t stupid enough to say he was just like his old self again, because neither of them would ever be, but Sam was happy and he thought for himself and he laughed and that was enough for the both of them.

Alastair never went to the Empty. Death couldn’t bring Himself to do it. Instead he simply lived in the pocket dimension Death and His reapers did.

He was received as a friend by most, given the nature of his relationship with Death.

YOU’RE A CHEAT.

“No, you just don’t know how to play.” Alastair hummed, taking marbles from the well on Death’s side of the board and putting them in his mancala.

I REFUSE TO BELIEVE YOU’RE NOT CHEATING.

And even with the nature of bones not being able to stretch and move, Alastair knew Death was grinning. “Mm. When I win this round I’ll let you choose the next game.”

IF.

“Oh, shut up. You know it’s a when.”

I SHOULD CAST YOU INTO THE EMPTY.

“You should, but you won’t. Your move.” Alastair smiled warmly, leaning back in his seat. 

They lived together. It wasn’t a loving relationship, it wasn’t a sexual one, it was pure, unadulterated friendship. Alastair felt more human than he had in thousands of years, and he could swear it was beginning to rub off on Death.

I CAN OFFER YOU A POSITION AS A REAPER, YOU KNOW.

“I’ll consider it. But I think I’d rather stay here. There’s always the temptation, you know.”

TO SEE HIM?

“Yes.” 

DID YOU LOVE HIM?

“I believe I did.”

GOOD. I ALWAYS HOPED YOU WOULD FIND SOMEONE OTHER THAN EVE. LILITH.

Alastair chuckled softly. “And why is that?” And now he knew for sure Death was grinning because of the twinkle in his not-eyes. 

SHE WAS A ROYAL BITCH.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This has been a real journey, and I want to thank you all so much for reading!


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